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SELECTIONS FOR READING; 



WITH AN 



INTRODUCTION UPON ELOCUTION. 



PBEPABED FOB USE IN SCHOOLS AND ACADEMIES. 



HENRY W. JAMESON, A.B., 

Author of "Rhetorical Method." 

i rf J 



ST. LOUIS: 
G. I. JONES AND COMPANY. 

1880. 






IS 







\ 






Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1880, by 

HENRY W. JAMESON, 
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 



PREFACE 



This book has been prepared for classes somewhat advanced in 
their school course. 

The part containing the theory of Elocution has been made 
quite brief, inasmuch as many of the topics usually receive treat- 
ment when pupils are younger. 

In teaching Reading, it is best to cultivate the conversational 
'powers of classes and to avoid too much declamation, — \ in short, 
to rely upon careful and quiet practice to develop volume and to 
improve expression. Whilst learning to use a conversational tone, 
the voice becomes stronger, fuller, and more expressive. Any 
special training as an elocutionist should not form part of the 
school course. 

Some attempt has been made to arrange the Selections so that 
lessons may be assigned in course. 

There are certain departures from prescribed forms, in naming 
the qualities of voice, in classifying pauses, and in writing inflec- 
tions ; but such changes do not imply any difference in practice. 

The compiler would express his thanks to Messrs. Houghton,, 
Mifflin & Co. for permission to use the poems of Longfellow, Whit- 
tier, Holmes, Lowell, and Emerson ; to D. Appleton & Co. for 
those of Halleck, and also to the same gentlemen and to Mr. 
Parke Godwin for those of Bryant ; to Messrs. G. P. Putnam's Sons 
for the selections from Irving ; to Mr. W. J. Widdleton, proprietor 
of copyright of Edgar A. Poe's works ; to Mrs: Caroline S. Web- 
ster, for the selections from Daniel Webster ; to Dr. William 
Everett, for the selections from Edward Everett ; and to the 
authors who have contributed their writings to these pages. 

(iii) 



IV PREFACE. 

Special acknowledgment is made to Professor Horace H. Mor- 
gan for assistance in preparing the Selections, and for the kind 
encouragement which has been the chief reason for the appearance 
of this book. ♦ 

St. Louis, August 20, 1880. 



INDEX 



PART I. 



I. Elocution. 

Definition of Elocution. The Requirements for Good 

Reading. The Office of Elocution 1 

II. The Vocal Organs. 

Sounds. The Larynx. Muscles of the Larynx. Differ- 
ence between Speaking and Singing. The Lungs. 
Modification of Sounds 1-2 

III. Sounds and their Formation. 

Vowels. Vocal Consonants. Mute Consonants .... 2-4 

IV. Pronunciation. 

Sounds of Letters. The Eorm of Syllables. Accent . . 4 
V. Breathing. 

Employment of Force. Exercises . 5 

VI. Kinds of Utterance. 

Vocal. Aspirated. Mixed 5 

VII. Quality of Voice. 

Close-Breathing or Conversational. Free-Breathing or 
Emotional. Middle-Breathing. Occasional Qualities . 6-7 
VIII. Force. 

Effusive. Expulsive. Explosive 8 

IX. Pitch. 

Very Low. Low. Middle. High. Very High . . . 8-9 
X. Movement. 

Very Slow. Slow. Moderate. Quick. Rapid .... 9 
XI. Accompaniments of the Various Qualities of Voice. 

Close-Breathing. Free-Breathing. Middle-Breathing . . 10 
XII. The Whisper and Half-Whisper. 

Formation. An Aid to Articulation ........ 11 



VI 



INDEX. 



XIII. Emphasis. 

Ordinary Emphasis. Emotional Emphasis. Relative 
Emphasis 11-12 

XIV. Pauses. 

Grammatical. Rhetorical 12-13 

XV, Stress. 

Initial or Radical. Medium. Final. Compound. Thor- 
ough. Intermittent or Tremulous 13-14 

XVI. Inflection. 

Rising. Falling. Cadence. Rising Circumflex. Falling 
Circumflex. General Examples. Combination of Stress 

and Inflection 14-16 

XVII. Modulation. 

Vowel. Emotional. Waves of Voice 16-17 

XVIII. Transition. 

Definition 17 

XIX. Examples for Practice 17-20 

XX. Hints to the Reader. 

Use of Vocal Organs. Reading Poetry 20-22 

XXI. Preparation of the Reading Lesson ...... 22 



PART II.— SELECTIONS. 



1. Hamlet's Instructions to the Players .... William Shakspere. 23 

2. The Deserted Village Oliver Goldsmith. 24 

3. A Sea Voyage . Washington Irving. 26 

4. The American Flag Joseph Hodman Drake. 27 

5. The Love of Nature and of Scenery James Bpattie. 29 

6. A Psalm of Life Henry W. Longfellow. 31 

7. Scrooge and Marley Charles Dickens. 32 

8. The Finding of the Lyre James Bussell Lowell. 34 

9. The Crossing of the Rubicon ..... James Sheridan Knowles. 35 

10. Leonidas George Croly. 36 

11. Summary Punishment Walter Scott. 37 

12. The Soldier's Dream . Thomas Campbell. 39 

13. The Landing of the Pilgrims Felicia Hemans. 40 

14. The Mariner's Dream William Dimond. 41 



INDEX. Vll 

PAGE 

15. Portia and Nerissa William Shakspere. 43 

16. Marco Bozarris Fitz-Greene Halleck. 46 

17. The Bugle Song Alfred Tennyson. 48 

18. Address to Ms Troops George Washington. 49 

19. Charge of the Light Brigade Alfred- Tennyson. 50 

20. Burial of Sir John Moore Charles Wolfe. 52 

21. The First Earl of Chatham Henry Grattan. 53 

22. Lochinvar Walter Scott. 54 

23. Hohenlinden Thomas Campbell. 56 

24. The Launch of the Ship Henry W. Longfellow. 57 

25. On the War with America William Pitt. 59 

26. Lady Clare Alfred Tennyson. 62 

27. Observation Caleb Colton. 65 

28. The Inchcape Rock Bobert Southey. QQ 

29. True Eloquence Daniel Webster. 68 

30* Home James Montgomery . 69 

31. A Patriot's Last Speech Bobert Emmett. 70 

32. Marmion and Douglass Walter Scott. 71 

33. The Love of Life Oliver Goldsmith. 73 

34. Ossian's Address to the Sun James Macpherson. 74 

35. The Passions William Collins. 75 

36. Academical Education Edward Everett. 78 

37. America William Cullen Bryant. 80 

38. Portia's Description of Mercy William Shakspere. 81 

39. Labor and Genius Sydney Smith. 82 

40. The Pied Piper of Hamelin Bobert Browning. 84 

41. Breakfast at Dotheboy's Hall Charles Dickens. 89 

42. The Death of the Elowers ....... William C. Bryant. 91 

43. On the Crime of Being Young William Bitt. 92 

44. Christian Mariner's Hymn ....... Caroline A. Southey. 93 

45. Adams and Jefferson Daniel Webster. 95 

46. The Beleaguered City Henry W. Longfellow. 97 

47. Mrs. Caudle's Curtain Lecture upon Umbrellas .Douglas Jerrold. 98 

48. The Old Oaken Bucket . .• Samuel Woodworth. 100 

49. The Wreck of the Hesperus Henry W. Longfellow. 101 

50. Lament of Cardinal Wolsey William Shakspere. 104 

51. Ring Out, Wild Bells Alfred Tennyson. 105 

52. Anecdote of Judge Marshall Anonymous. 106 

53. The May Queen Alfred Tennyson. 108 

54. New Year's Eve do. 110 

55. Conclusion do. 112 

56. Invective against Catiline Cicero. 115 



Till INDEX. 

PAGE 

57. To-morrow Nathaniel Cotton. 116 

58. The Hurricane William Cullen Bryant. 117 

59. Beading Edward Gibbon. 119 

60. A Carronade at Liberty Victor Hugo. 121 

61. The One-Hoss Shay Oliver Wendell Holmes. 116 

62. Speech of Brutus on the Death of Caesar . William Shakspere. 129 

63. Thanatopsis William Cullen Bryant. 130 

64. Eelation of Man's Wants to his Happiness . . . Daniel Webster. 133 

65. Hamlet's Soliloquy William Shakspere. 134 

Q6. Time and Eternity Edward Young. 135 

67. Jacob's Ladder William M. Bryant. 136 

68. The Rainy Day Henry W. Longfellow. 138 

69. The Quarrel of Brutus and Cassius . . . William Shakspere. 138 

70. Apostrophe to the Ocean . . - Lord Byron. 142 

71. Character of Columbus . . . . w Washington Irving . 144 

72. Resignation Henry W. Longfellow. 145 

73. Astronomy Edward, Everett. 147 

74. What's Hallowed Ground? Thomas Campbell. 148 

75. Winter in London Douglas Jerrold. 150 

76. The Bridge of Sighs Thomas Hood. 151 

77. Degeneracy of the Athenians Demosthenes. 154 

78. Ode to Peace Oliver Wendell Holmes. 155 

79. Morning Hymn of Adam and Eve John Milton. 156 

80. Adventure of Christian in Doubting Castle . . . John Bunyan. 158 

81. The Cloud Percy By sshe Shelley. 159 

82. The Destruction of Sennacherib Lord Byron. 162 

83. Mrs. Caudle's Views in regard to Masonry . . Douglas Jerrold. 163 

84. Catiline's Defiance George Croly. 164 

85. Hymn to the Night Henry W. Longfellow. 166 

86. The Barefoot Boy John G. Wliittier. 167 

87. Popular Education William T. Harns. 170 

88. The Children's Hour Henry W. Longfellow. 172 

89. Oft in the Stilly Night Thomas Moore. 173 

90. Charity Edward Everett. 174 

91. Queen Mab Percy By sshe Shelley. 176 

92. Victor Hugo's Genius Algernon C. Swinburne. 179 

93. Cato's Soliloquy Joseph Addison. 180 

94. Criticism Laurence Sterne. 181 

95. To the Humble-Bee lialph Waldo Emerson. 182 

96. The Harp that once through Tara's Halls . . . Thomas Moore. 184 

97. Anonymous Writing Bichard Whateley. 185 

98. The Raven Edgar A. Poe. 186 



INDEX. IX 

PAGE 

99. Ocle to a Skylark Percy Bysshe Shelley. 190 

100. Mark Antony's on the Death of Caesar . . William Shakspere. 193 

101. To a Mountain Daisy Eobert Burns. 198 

102. Intimations of Immortality William Wordsworth. 200 

103. Grounds for American Patriotism . . . Horace H. Morgan. 203 

104. Indian Summer John G. Whittier. 205 

105. The Cheerfulness of Genius Lord Jeffrey. 205 

106. Chorus from Atalanta in Calydon . . . Algernon C. Swinburne. 206 

107. On the Order of Nature . . Alexander Pope. 208 

108. Hymn of Pan Percy Bysshe Shelley. 209 

109. The Bird Let Loose Thomas Moore. 211 

110. Prom Marino Faliero . Lord Byron. 211 

111. The Angel of Patience . . John G. Whittier. 214 

112. Chamouni Samuel T. ColeHdge. 217 

113. This World is all a Fleeting Show Thomas Moore. 218 

114. Against the Censorship of the Press John Milton. 218 

115. Sunrise James Thomson. 218 

116. Hotspur's Description of a Fox .... William Shakspere. 219 

117. Shakespeare's Historical Plays .... William T. Harris. 220 

118. Satan John Milton. 223 

119. The Excursion William Wordsworth. 225 

120. Death and Satan John Milton. 226 

121. To Autumn . . John Keats. 228 

122. Satan's Lamentation John Milton. 229 

123. The Dream of Clarence William Shakspere. 230 

124. Character of Addison Samuel Johnson. 232 

125. Blaunche the Duchesse Geoffrey Chaucer. 234 



INDEX OF AUTHORS 



PAGE 

Addison, Joseph (1672-1719) 180 

Beattie, James (1735-1803) 29 

Browning, Robert (1812- ) 84 

Bryant, William Cullen (1794-1879) .... 80, 91, 117, 130 

Bryant, William M 136 

Bunyan, John (1628-1688) 158 

Burns, Robert (1759-1796) 198 

Byron, Lord (1788-1824) 142, 162, 211 

Campbell, Thomas (1777-1844) . .' 39, 56, 148 

Chaucer, Geoffrey (1328 or 1340-1400) 234 

Cicero, Marcus TuUius (B. C. 106-43) 115 

Coleridge, Samuel Taylor (1772-1834) 217 

Collins, William (1720-1756) 75 

Colton, Caleb 65 

Cotton, Nathaniel (1707-1788) 116 

Croly, George (1780-1860) 36,164 

Demosthenes (B. C. 385-322) 154 

Dickens, Charles (1812-1870) 32, 89 

Dimond, William (1752-1837) 41 

Drake, James Rodman (1795-1820) 27 

Emerson, Ralph Waldo (1803- )........ 182 

Emmett, Robert (1780-1803) 70. 

Everett, Edward (1794-1865) 78,147,174 

Gibbon, Edward (1737-1794) 119 

(xi) 



Xll INDEX OF AUTHORS. 

PAGE 

Goldsmith, Oliver (1728-1774) .24,73 

Grattan, Henry (1746-1820) 53 

Halleck, Fitz-Greene (1795-1869) 46 

Harris, William Torrey (1835- ) 170,220 

Hemans, Felicia D. (1793-1835) 40 

Holmes, Oliver Wendell (1809- ) - 116,155 

Hood, Thomas (1798-1845) 151 

Hugo, Victor (1802- ) 121 

Irving, Washington (1783-1859) 26, 144 

Jeffrey, Francis (1773-1850) 205 

Jerrold, Douglas (1803-1857) 98,150,163 

Johnson, Samuel (1709-1784) 232 

Keats, John (1796-1820) . . 228 

Knowles, James Sheridan (1784-1862) 35 

Longfellow, Henry Wads worth (1807- ) . 31, 57, 97, 101 

138, 145, 166, 172 

Lowell, James Russell (1819- ) 34 

Macpherson, James (1738-1796) 74 

Milton, John (1608-1674) 156, 218, 223, 226, 229 

Montgomery, James (1771-1854) 69 

Moore, Thomas (1779-1852) 173, 184, 211, 218 

Morgan, Horace II 203 

Pitt, William (1708-1778) 59,92 

Poe, Edgar Allen (1819-1849) 186 

Pope, Alexander (1688-1744) 208 

Scott, Walter (1771-1832) 37,54,71 

Shakspere, William (1564-1616) 23, 43, 81, 104, 129, 134, 138 

193, 219, 230 
Shelley, Percy Bysshe (1792-1822) . . . 159, 176, 190, 209 

Smith, Sydney (1771-1845) 82 

Southey, Caroline A. (1787-1854) 93 

Southey, Robert (1774-1843) 66 

Sterne, Laurence (1713-1768) 181 

Swinburne, Algernon C. (1837- ) 179,206 

Tennyson, Alfred (1809- ) 48, 50, 62, 105, 108, 110. 112 



INDEX OF AUTHORS. Xlll 

PAGE 

Thomson, James (1700-1748) . . 218 

Washington, George (1732-1799) 49 

Webster, Daniel (1782-1852) 68,95,133 

Whateley, Richard (1787-1863) 185 

Whittier, John G. (1808- ) 167,205,214 

Wolfe, Charles (1791-1823) 52 

Woodworth, Samuel (1785-1842). 100 

Wordsworth, William ( 1770-1850) 200,225 

Young, Edward (1681-1765) 135 

Ano^mious 106 



SELECTIONS FOR READING. 



PART I. 



ELOCUTION. 

Elocution is the art of reading or speaking. 
In order to read well, it is necessary, — 

1. To understand the thoughts to be delivered. 

2. To know how they ought to sound to a listener, to produce 
their proper effect. 

3. To be able to employ the organs of speech so as to render 
the thoughts properly. 

The office of elocution, then, is to train the vocal organs to 
express the feelings of the individual, so that his delivery may 
arouse in others sentiments in harmony with his own. 

THE VOCAL ORGANS. 

Sounds are produced by the vibration of two membranes in the 
larynx, called the vocal chords. 

The larynx (musical box) is attached to the upper extremity of 
the trachea (wind-pipe), and is so constructed as to allow of a 
free passage of breath over the vocal chords. The covering of 
the aperture through the larynx is called the epiglottis, and moves 
freely in the act of breathing. 

There are muscles in the larynx which serve to bring the vocal 

1 



2 ELOCUTION. 

chords into position for the production of sound, and others which 
regulate the tension of the chords. 

When the vocal chords are out of position for the breath to vibrate 
them, and it is attempted to speak, the result will be only a whisper. 

When a low note is sounded, the larynx descends and the vocal chords 
become lax ; but with a high note, the larynx rises and the chords become 
tense. 

Speaking and singing differ as to the number of vibrations 
allowed to tones. In speaking, the vibrations are few and the 
breathing spasmodic ; whilst in singing, the number of vibrations 
is many, and the breathing continuous. 

If the sound a be repeated for a number of times, with a pause after 
each sounding, the tone is a speaking tone ; but if the sound is repeated 
many times continuously, the result will be a musical or singing tone. 

The lungs are employed as a reservoir for the air used in 
speaking. 

The modification of sounds and the formation of vowels and 
consonants is accomplished by means of the throat and nasal 
passages, the palate, tongue, teeth, and lips. 

SOUNDS AND THEIR FORMATION. 

The sounds used in the English language are of three kinds : — 

1. Vowels. 

2. Vocal Consonants. 

3. Mute Consonants. 

Vowels. 

Vowels are produced by vibrating the vocal chords. They are 
distinguished from each other by reason of ( 1 ) a different form 
of the mouth when they are uttered, (2) a different tension of the 
vocal chords caused by an increase or diminution of force required 
for their perfect formation. 

a, o, as in all, order. 



SOUNDS AND THEIR FORMATION. 3 

■e, as in met. 

i, y, as in if, only. 

o, a, as in of, what. 

oo, o, u, as in good, wolf, full. 

u, o, as in sun, son. 

a (short a in father), as in dance. 

a, e (with a vanish), as in ate, they. 

e, i, y (before r), as in ermine, irksome, myrrh. 

u (before r), as in urge. 

(with a vanish), as in open, 
a, e, as in air, there. 

e, i, as in mere, machine. 

i, y, as in idle, my. 

oo, o, u, as in room, move, true. 

u, as in blue. 

Diphthongs. 
oi, oy, as in toil, boy. 
ou, ow, as in our, how. 

The diphthongs which are sounded as single vowels — or rather in 
which but one of the letters composing the diphthong is sounded — have 
been omitted. 

Vocal Consonants. 

g (with the palate), as in go. 

d (tip of tongue and roof of the mouth), as in do. 

s, z (tip of tongue and roof of the mouth), as in was, hazard. 

1 (tip of tongue and roof of the mouth), as in lame, hail, 
r (tip of tongue and roof of the mouth), as in run, her. 
th (tip of tongue against upper gums and teeth), as in this. 
v, f (upper teeth and lower lip), as in vie, of. 

b (with the lips), as in boy. 

m (through the nasal passages), as in my. 

n (through the nasal passages), as in no. 

ng, n (through the nasal passages), as in sing, link. 

w (the sound of oo long, with an impulse following it), as in we. 

y (the sound of e long, with an impulse following it), as in you. 



4 ELOCUTION. 

j and g (soft) are compound sounds, and seem to be made up 
of the sounds dzh, as in ajar, age. The composition of this 
sound varies in different words ; and some class it as simple. 

x is composed of the sounds ks or gs (gz), as in exempt, exact. 

Mute Consonants. 

c, k, qu* (with the palate), as in cot, kin, croquet. 

t (tip of tongue and roof of the mouth), as in to. 

s, c (tip of tongue and roof of the mouth), as in sauce. 

sh, s (tip of tongue against the upper gums), as in show, sure. 

ch (tip of tongue against the upper gums), as in choose. 

th (tip of tongue against the upper teeth), as in thin. 

f (upper teeth and lower lip), as in fin. 

-p (with the lips), pin. 

h (uninterrupted breath, with an impulse), as in how. 

wh (equals h w), as in which. 

Excellent works of reference upon the subject of sounds are: Bell's 
" Visible Speech," and Max Muller's " Science of Language." 

PRONUNCIATION. 

In the delivery of words, it is necessary to consider, — 

1. Sounds of the letters. 

2. The form of the sj^llables. 

3. Accent. 

The sounds of the letters have already been considered. A 
frequent reference to the dictionary will give the usage of the 
best speakers, will aid in dividing words into syllables, and will 
show the position of accented sj^llables. 

The most successful way to correct an imperfect articulation is 
by whispering words. By this means the slightest inaccuracies 
may be detected and overcome. 

Continual and correct practice is necessary to gain facility in 
pronunciation. 



* qu in such a position as in conquest has the sound of ki 



BREATHING KINDS OF UTTERANCE. 5 

Suggestion. — Have classes make out lists of words difficult to pro- 
nounce. Give special attention to acceut and to combinations of conso- 
nants. Frequent use of the dictionaries should be encouraged. 

BREATHING. 

The diaphragm performs the office of inhaling, when the breath- 
ing is natural; and the diaphragm and intercostal muscles the 
exhaling, in quiet utterance. 

Exercise. — Draw the air quietly into the lungs, until they are 
naturally full ; then, pronounce several times the sounds awe, ah, 
a (in at), a (in fate), e (in piece). Repeat. 

To speak with some emphasis, we require the additional aid of 
the pectoral muscles in emitting the breath. 

Exercise. — Inhale slowly, and pronounce with some force, and 
abruptly, the sounds oh, ah. Repeat. 

When under the influence of excitement, or of a desire to be 
heard at some distance, it is well to call in the aid of the abdom- 
inal muscles in exhaling : in inhaling, we use the pectoral muscles 
to hasten the process. 

Exercise. — Inhale quickly and expel the breath with consider- 
able force, uttering the sounds ou (in our), oh. Repeat. 

If violent utterance is required, as in calling, we should bring 
into action the dorsal muscles, to assist both in inhaling and in 
expelling the breath. 

Too much practice upon violent utterance is to be avoided, especially 
with beginners. The rare occasions which require such a mode of utter- 
ance will suggest the proper action to be employed. 

KINDS OF UTTERANCE. 
Vocal, Aspirated, and Mixed Utterance. 

When full vocality is used, the utterance is termed Vocal. 

When the vocal chords are not employed, the utterance is 
termed Aspirate, or Whispered. 

When there is only a partial production of vocality, the utter- 
ance is termed Mixed, or Half -Whisper. 



ELOCUTION. 



QUALITY OF VOICE. 

Quality of Voice or Tone depends chiefly upon the sentiment to 
be expressed. 

"Hamlet's Advice to the Players" requires a conversational tone; 
" The Burial of Sir John Moore," a low tone ; " Lochinvar," a full, high 
tone. 

The quality of voice should be designated in accordance with 
the manner of Breathing. 

Perhaps it would be better to say that quality should be determined by 
the manner of breathing and the resonance. Still, the resonance depends 
almost entirely upon the breathing, as will be seen hereafter. 

Close-Breathing or Conversational Quality. 

In ordinary conversation, we notice : — 

1. That the breath is used economically. 

2. That the resonance is from the pharynx. 

As has been said, the second condition is really dependent upon the 
first; for with the glottis only partially open, the resonance could not be 
from below, — i.e., from the chest, — but must be from the back of the 
throat (pharynx). 

Suggestion. — The class should be required to give a number of selec- 
tions illustrating each point under vocal delivery. 

Free-Breathing or Emotional Quality. 

When awe, reverential fear, joy, indignation, or kindred feel- 
ings are to be expressed, the following conditions are true : — 

1. Breathing, free and deep. 

2. Resonance from the chest. 

Examples: "Apostrophe to the Ocean," "A Patriot's Last Speech," 
"Ring out, Wild Bells." 

Suggestion. — It will assist classes to have selections read by various 
members of the class or by the teacher. They can understand better about 
breathing and resonance by hearing than by seeing a printed page. Whilst 
they may become perfect in theory by noting the sentiment of a selection 



QUALITIES OP VOICE. 7 

and deciding how it ought to be read, they will excel in practice only by 
hearing and reading aloud themselves. Then, again, any association of qual- 
ity with Si few set selections is a mistake ; the quality should become asso- 
ciated with the sentiment, so as to be employed without hesitation in 
reading any number of extracts of a given sentiment. 

Middle-Breathing Quality. 

When the sentiment is neither conversational, nor yet fully 
emotional, the conditions noticed will be — 

1. Middle (or partially free) Breathing. 

2. Resonance partly from the pharynx and partly from the chest. 

Examples: " The American Flag" (first stanza), "A Psalm of Life," 
"Lochinvar." 

The Middle-Breathing Quality should be used, instead of the 
Conversational Quality, when the size of the room would seem to 
render it easier to do so. 

For the sake of convenience, we may speak of the various qualities of 
voice as Close, Free, or Middle. 

Occasional Qualities of Voice. 
The Falsetto is above the natural register of the voice. 
For example, see the selection, "The Wreck of the Hesperus." 

The Guttural is formed by using the false vocal chords, and 
making the larynx as far as possible the place of resonance. 

Deep and violent disgust may be manifested by using this 
quality. 

For example, see certain stanzas of "The Raven." 

The Pectoral is a harsh quality, produced by using the diaphragm 
and lower intercostal muscles to give the impulse to the breath. 

For example, see "Hamlet's Soliloquy." 

The guttural and pectoral qualities should not be attempted without the 
exercise of great care. They express unnatural and distorted feelings, 
and are produced in an unnatural manner. 

The Nasal is produced by forcing the resonance from the nasal 
passages. 



8 ELOCUTION. 

For example, see "The One-Hoss Shay." 

The Plaintive, the Weeping, and similar qualities will require special 
practice, and are not important enough for treatment in this work. 

FORCE. 

The Force used in reading or speaking is of three principal 
kinds : — 

1. Effusive, as in ordinary conversation. 

For examples, select portions of "A Sea Voyage," "Scrooge and 
MarlejV and "The Finding of the Lyre." 

2. Expulsive, with considerable effort. 

Examples: "The American Flag," "Lochinvar," " Invective against 
Catiline." 

3. Explosive, with great effort. 

Examples: "Marco Bozzaris" (close of third stanza), "Charge of the 
Light Brigade " (the command in the first stanza). 

Remark. — These three varieties of force are used for convenience. 
Less force than effusive would he called gentle; we have examples of its 
use in the first stanza of "Marco Bozzaris," and in "The Burial of Sir 
John Moore." " The American Flag, " already mentioned as an example 
of expulsive force, has parts which are neither expulsive nor effusive, 
but seemingly between the two. In the third stanza of " Marco Bozzaris," 
after the word strike, in each case, there is a diminution of the force to 
end of the line ; this force seems to be between explosive and expulsive. 

PITCH. 

Pitch is the elevation or depression of the voice, considered with 
reference to its natural compass. 

The compass of the voice is the distance from its highest to its lowest 
notes. 

Pitch will vary in accordance with the force used and the man- 
ner of its application. 

If the breathing is free and considerable force employed, the pitch will 
not be so high as it would be if the breathing were close. The manner 
of applying the force makes the difference : in the former case, the force 
is diffused; in the latter, concentrated. 



MOVEMENT. 9 

The vocal chords become tense, in order to escape injury when the 
breathing is very forcible. This tension causes the sound to be high. If 
the breathing is gentle, the chords become lax, and a low sound is pro- 
duced. 

The various kinds of Pitch are : — 

1. Very low. 

Examples : "Burial of Sir John Moore," " The Death of the Flowers." 

2. Low. 

Examples: "A Psalm of Life," "Charge of the Light Brigade" (the 
third and fourth lines) . 

3. Middle. 

Examples: "A Sea Voyage," "Reading." 

4. High. 

Examples: "Lochinvar," " Ode to a Skylark." 

5. Veiy high. 

Example: "The May Queen." 

MOVEMENT. 

Movement is of the following kinds : — 

1. Very slow. 

Example : "Burial of Sir John Moore." 

2. Slow. 

Example : "Apostrophe to the Ocean." 

3. Moderate. 

Example : "A Sea Voyage . ' ' 

4. Quick. 
Example: "Lochinvar." 

5. Rapid. 

Example: " Marmion and Douglas" (beginning with the words, "And 
dar'st thou then "). 



10 ELOCUTION. 

Suggestion. — Force, Pitch, and Movement are so closely related, 
physiologically, that they should hereafter be considered together. It will 
be a good plan for classes to furnish their own examples under the "Ac- 
companiments of Quality," and submit them for discussion. 

ACCOMPANIMENTS OF THE VARIOUS QUALITIES OF VOICE. 
Close-Breathing- Quality. 

If the force used be effusive, the pitch will be middle and the 
movement moderate. 

If the force be expulsive, the pitch will be high (or between 
middle and high), the movement quick (or between moderate and 
quick). 

The increase of force necessitates more openness of the glottis, so 
that when explosive force is attempted with this quality of voice, the 
larynx being quite open, there will be chest resonance, and therefore free- 
breathing quality. 

Free-Breathing Quality. 

If effusive force be used, the pitch will be very low and the 
movement very slow. 

If expulsive force be used, the pitch may vary from low to high, 
and the movement from slow to moderate. 

If explosive force be used, the pitch will be high or veiy high, 
and the movement slow to quick. 

Middle-Breathing Quality. 

If the force is between effusive and expulsive, the pitch will 
vary from low to middle, and the movement from slow to moderate. 

If the. force is expulsive, the pitch will be middle, and the move- 
ment between moderate and quick. 

If the force is between expulsive and explosive, the pitch will 
be high, and the movement will vary from moderate to rapid. 

The Explosive Middle-Breathing cannot be distinguished from the Ex- 
plosive Free-Breathing. 



THE WHISPER EMPHASIS. 11 



THE WHISPER. 



The Whisper is simply articulate breathing. It expresses secrecy, 
or in some instances great emphasis. 

Hush, hark, and similar words are used to introduce statements to be 
delivered in a whisper. Some speakers will electrify an audience by the 
use of the whisper. All are familiar with instances of this kind. 

As an aid to correct articulation, practice in whispering is very 
valuable. 

The formation of vowels and consonants, the difficulties of syllabica- 
tion and accent, — all become evident when whispered utterance is re- 
sorted to. Daily practice upon a sentence or two will do more to correct 
faults than any amount of vocalized utterance. The reason is evident 
when we consider how much some speakers rely upon volume of sound in 
order to be understood. These same persons, when they are to use the 
whisper, know that their chief support has been taken from them, and 
concentrate their attention upon articulating carefully each word. 

THE HALF-WHISPER. 

The Half- Whisper or Mixed Utterance is used to express sur- 
prise, or to lend special emphasis to what is said. 

This form of utterance is sometimes called the "stage-whisper," be- 
cause so often resorted to by actors. 

Some persons are unable to acquire the half-whisper without 
great effort. It is chiefly valuable for emphasis. 

EMPHASIS. 

Emphasis is the use of special force in the utterance of certain 
words in a sentence. 

Emphasis shows the words in a sentence to which special importance is 
attributed. 

There are three kinds of Emphasis : — 

1. Ordinary Emphasis, or such as is naturally given to prom- 
inent words. 

Explanation. — In the first sentence of "A Sea Voyage," the promi- 
nent words are : American, Europe, long, voyage, excellent, preparative. 



12 ELOCUTION*. 

Let us try to read the sentence so as to emphasize the words visiting, 
make, and preparative. This would obscure the thought contained in the 
sentence, which is about the long voyage being an excellent preparative to 
an American visiting Europe, and would lead us to imagine that there was 
something about making a visit as a preparative. 

2. Emotional Emphasis, which simply increases the ordinary 
force applied to words to render them prominent. 

Explanation. — In the first four lines of " The American Flag " there is 
emotional emphasis given to the following words : Freedom, her, standard, 
she, tore, azure, robe, night, set, stars, glory. If there were nothing emo- 
tional in the thought, these words would have received only ordinary 
emphasis. To show the reasonableness of the emphasis suggested, try 
different words, as mountain, height, unfurled, air, there. Bead repeat- 
edly, by degrees restoring the proper emphasis. 

3. Relative Emphasis, belonging to words which have gained 
special importance from association with other words. 

Examples: "The Love of Nature and Scenery" (beginning with the 
words, "In the crowded city"), "A Psalm of Life " (first line of fourth 
stanza), " Scrooge and Marley " (beginning with the words, "a squeezing, 
wrenching, grasping "). 

Kemark. — In the case of a climax like that of the last example, where 
no growth in importance characterizes the words, the only reason for an 
increase of emphasis is, that when several words associated in a series do 
not appear to grow in importance, the whole series is rendered weaker 
than a single word would be. 

The same reasoning holds true in the case of the same word being 
repeated; either the word must be more emphatic upon its repetition, or 
it had better not be repeated. 

PAUSES. 

Pauses are of two kinds : Grammatical and Rhetorical. 

Grammatical Pauses. 

Grammatical Pauses are written when they are of importance in 
understanding what a sentence means ; but they are understood 
when there would be no reason for going astray in regard to the 

sense. 



STRESS. 13 

Rules for Grammatical Pauses. 

I. Different thoughts are separated from each other : — 

a. By the use of a period or its equivalent, if written as separate sen- 
tences. 

b. By the use of a colon, semicolon, comma or an equivalent mark, if 
-written as parts of a compound sentence. 

II. Words or phrases not closely joined together are separated 
by a pause. 

a. A grammatical subject, either alone or closely modified, is separated 
from the predicate of the sentence. 

b. When a word, phrase, or clause is changed from its usual position, 
a pause will generally succeed. 

These pauses are purely grammatical, whether written or understood, 
since they simply divide sentences into groups of words and render the 
meaning clear. 

Note. — In the case of an inversion for the sake of emphasis, there will 
of course he a different kind of pause, which will be explained in the 
next article. 

Rhetorical Pauses. 

Rhetorical Pauses are due to a desire to produce some special 
effect, such as emphasis. A pause will give importance either to 
the word or words preceding it, or to those that follow. In some 
instances, it gives emphasis to both. 

Examples : " He, he it is that gave us peace." 

The comma after He, simply shows a want of grammatical connection: 
there is also a rhetorical pause adding emphasis. 

" John has gone to the city." 

A grammatical pause occurs after John and gone; but if we increase the 
usual length of the pauses, a rhetorical effect is produced, since we attract 
attention by our hesitation, curiosity is excited, and an ordinary, com- 
monplace remark becomes invested with a peculiar interest for the time 
being, and the hearer is rendered all expectancy. 

(For the Cesural Pause, see "Reading Poetry."} 

STRESS. 

Stress is the manner of applying force in uttering the vowels of 
accented syllables. 

Words of one syllable may receive stress if they are important. 



14 ELOCUTION. 

In great measure, Stress depends upon sentiment. 
There are three principal varieties of Stress : — 

1. Initial or Radical, in which case the force is applied at the 
beginning of a vowel. (Marked ^> over the syllable.) 

Example : "A Sea Voyage." 

2. Median Stress, in which there is an increase of force towards 
the middle of a vowel. (Marked <^> over the syllable.) 

Example: " Death of the Elowers." 

3. Final Stress, where the force comes at the close of a vowel. 
(Marked < over the syllable. ) 

Example: "A Patriot's Last Speech." 

Individuals differ in their manner of using stress; so that it is very 
difficult to say that this or that emotion implies this or that kind of stress. 
When Brutus says to Cassius, "Hear me, for I will speak," we should 
use final stress, if we thought that Brutus was greatly excited. Yet, if 
our notion is that he was perfectly calm, we should say that he would 
hold to a dignified radical stress ; this, however, could not be wholly true, 
since several of the words used require final stress on account of their 
natural manner of utterance. 

Other varieties of Stress are : — 

1. Compound, a union of radical and final. (Marked X over 
the syllable. ) 

Example: "Mrs. Caudle's Curtain Lecture upon Umbrellas." "What 
were you to do?" * * * "Oh! you do hear it ! " 

2. Thorough, when full explosive force is given to each word. 
(Marked □ over the syllable. ) 

Example : " Marco Bozzaris " (beginning "Strike till the last ") . 

3. Intermittent or Tremulous, a wavering, feeble mode of utter- 
ance. (Marked over the syllable.) 

Example: " New Year's Eve." 

INFLECTION. 

Inflection is a turning or bending of the voice at the close of 
syllables or words. 



INFLECTION. 15 

There are several varieties of inflection. 

1. The Rising Inflection (marked ' ) is a turning of the voice 
upward. 

Examples : (Question expecting the answer yes, or no, or equivalent) , 
"Are you going ? " (Question implying the answer yes or no), "Was it for 
this our fathers bledl " 

2. Falling Inflection (marked y ) is a turning of the voice down- 
ward. 

Examples : (Question expecting or implying answer different from yes 
or no) , " What can we say to them V "He has left the city." 

3. The Cadence is a double falling inflection. 
Examples : "Adams and Jefferson are no more : they are dead." 

4. The Rising Circumflex (marked J ) is a slight turning of the 
voice downward, followed by a marked rising curve or inflection. 
It implies emotion, and is used instead of a simple rising inflection. 

Eor examples use those given under the rising inflection, allowing the 
voice to indicate surprise. 

5. The Falling Circumflex (marked "\ ) consists of a slight rise 
of the voice, followed by a falling curve or inflection. 

Examples : " It is not possible that this can be true.'''' 

General Examples: (Antithesis) "He arrived yesterday, and departed 
this morning." "He is not wise, but foolish.'''' (Repetition) "He is 
heref "He is here." (Series) "Men, women, and children were there." 
"Live or die, sink or swim, survive or perish." 

The chief reasons for the use of inflections are : — 

1. To economize the breath. 

2. To give variety to words in a series. ' 

3. To keep the listener attentive. 

4. To rest the listener. 

Suggestion. — Classes should be required to give a number of exam- 
ples to illustrate each of the varieties of inflection, and, in cases where it 
is possible, to show that different inflections may be used. 

Certain combinations of stress and inflection are required in 
speaking. 



16 ELOCUTION. 

In ordinary conversation, we notice the predominant combina- 
tion of initial stress and falling inflection. 

In determination, final stress and falling inflection. 
In violent surprise, final stress and rising inflection. 

Let the class furnish examples. 

MODULATION. 
Modulation is a varying of the sounds used in speaking. 

It rests the voice to allow it change from note to note ; hence it is well 
to modulate even in unemotional discourse. 

Since the force of breathing is never exactly the same for two succes- 
sive words, it would be an act of restraint to compel the vocal chords to 
retain the same tension. 

Inflection, Stress, and Emphasis are all aids to Modulation. 
Modulation is of two kinds : — 

1. Vowel, due to a difference in the pitch of the vowels. 

Diatonic Scale. 

e (eve), 
u (urge), 
oo (good), 
o (old), 
a (ate), 
a (at), 
a (father), 
a (all), 

These sounds but imperfectly represent the notes of a spoken scale ; 
still they do represent a difference of pitch. 

Suggestion. — To break up the tendency to a "sing-song" deliver, 
practice upon the spoken scale, thus, — a (all), a (father), a (all), a (at), 
and so on. Then reverse the operation, e (eve) to a (all). See that the 
sounds are given only their proper length. 

2. Emotional, caused by the sentiment. 
Under this head should be treated — 

Waves of Voice. 

The Monotone is characterized by the utterance of a number of 
words upon the same note. It indicates solemnity. 



TRANSITION EXAMPLES FOR PRACTICE. 17 

Inasmuch as every vowel raises 11 slightly in pitch, the established note 
of the monotone is regained each time by means of a very short slide or 
wave from the pitch of the vowel to the prescribed pitch. 

Example : (Ghost of King) "lam thy father's spirit." 

The Semitone is produced by dividing the steps upward so as to 
have them about half the usual length. The steps downward will 
be full tones, or even greater than full tones. The semitone indi- 
cates loss of control over the vocal organs, such as may be due to 
age, feebleness, or fear. 

Example : " New Year's Eve. 

The Diatone belongs to ordinary, unimpassioned utterance. 

The Waves of the Third, Fifth, etc. , are used to express emphasis. 

Example : " Do you think so? " 

The wave of the fifth will be produced by giving considerable emphasis 
to you. 

TRANSITION. 

Transition is a change of force, pitch, or movement, due to a 
change of sentiment. 

Example : " Charge of the Light Brigade." 

Remark. — Examples have been given sparingly, for fear of discourag- 
ing independent effort. If others seem necessary to a proper understand- 
ing of any topic, they can be furnished by members of the class or by the 
teacher. It is not too high a compliment to pay to any class to say that 
they will always succeed in accomplishing anything reasonable that is 
required of them. 

EXAMPLES EOR PRACTICE. 

1. " Roll on, ye stars! exult in youthful prime, 

Mark with bright curves the printless steps of Time ; 
Near and more near your beamy cars approach, 
And lessening orbs on lessening orbs encroach." 

2. " How sleep the brave, who sink to rest, 

By all their country's wishes blest! 
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, 
Returns to deck their hallowed mould, 
She there shall dress a sweeter sod 
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod." 
2 



18 • ELOCUTION. 

3. " Shine, shine forever, glorious Flame, 

Divinest gift of gods to men ! 
From Greece thy earliest splendor came, 

To Greece thy ray returns again. 
Take, Freedom, take thy radiant round; 

When dimmed, revive, — when lost, return 
Till not a shrine through earth he found, 

On which thy glories shall not burn! " 

4. " There came a burst of thunder sound — 

The boy — oh ! where was he ? 
Ask of the winds that far around 
With fragments strew' d the sea! " 

5. " Full many a glorious morning have I seen 

Flatter the mountain tops with sovereign eye, 
Kissing with golden face the meadows green, 
Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy." 

6. "Hitherto, Lords, what your commands imposed 

I have performed, as reason was, obeying, 

Not without wonder or delight beheld ; 

Now of my own accord such other trial 

I mean to show you of my strength, yet greater 

As with amaze shall strike all who behold." 

7. " Sleep, baby, sleep! what ails my dear, 

What ails my darling thus to cry ? 
Be still, my child, and lend thine ear, 

To hear me sing thy lullaby. 
My pretty lamb, forbear to weep ; 
Be still, my clear; sweet baby, sleep." 

8. "Hail, bounteous May! that dost inspire 

Mirth, and youth, and warm desire ; 
Woods and groves are of thy dressing, 
Hill and dale doth boast thy blessiug. 
Thus we salute thee with our early song, 
And welcome thee and wish thee long." 

9. " 'Come, if you dare! ' our trumpets sound; 

' Come, if you dare ! ' the foes rebound : 

' We come, we come ! ' 
Says the double beat of the thund'ring drum." 






EXAMPLES FOR PRACTICE. 19 



Sunrise. 



10. "Lo! here the gentle lark, weary of rest, 

From his moist cabinet mounts upon high, 
And wakes the morning, from whose silver breast 

The sun ariseth in his majesty; 
Who doth the world so gloriously behold, 
The cedar-tops and hills seem burnish'd gold." 

11. "A plague upon them! wherefore should I curse them? 

Would curses kill as doth the mandrake's groan, 
I would invent as bitter-searching terms, 
As curst, as harsh, and horrible to hear, 
Delivered strongly through my fixed teeth, 
With full as many signs of deadly hate, 
As lean-faced Envy in her loathsome cave." 

12. " Hush! hark! did stealing steps go by? 

Came not faint whispers near? 
No ! — The wild wind hath many a sigh 
Amid the foliage sere." 

Macbeth to Banquo's Ghost. 

13 . " What man dare, I dare. 
Approach thou like the rugged Russian bear, 
The armed rhinoceros, or the Hyrcan tiger; 
Take any shape but that, and my firm nerves 
Shall never tremble : or, be alive again, 
And dare me to the desert with thy sword ; 
If trembling I inhibit thee, protest me 

The baby of a girl. Hence, horrible shadow! 
Unreal mockery, hence ! Why so — being gone, 

[Ghost disappears. 
I am a man again." 

14. " He loosed the steed, — his slack hand fell; — upon the silent face 

He cast one long, deep, troubled look, — : then turned from that sad 

place ; — 
His hope was crushed, his after fate untold in martial strain ; — 
'His banner led the spears no more, amidst the hills of Spain." 

15. " He shook the fragment of his blade, 

And shouted 'Victory!' 
' Charge, Chester, charge ! on, Stanley, on ! ' 
Were the last words of Marmion." 



20 ELOCUTION. 

16. 

By any other name would smell as sweet." 

17. "Hush! hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings, 

And Phoebus 'gins arise." 

18. " Once more to the breach, dear friends, — once more, 

Or close the wall up with our English dead! " 

19. " O ! sacred Truth ! thy triumph ceased a while, 

And Hope, thy sister, ceased with thee to smile, 
When leagued Oppression poured to Northern wars 
Her whiskered pandours and her fierce hussars, 
Waved her dread standard to the breeze of morn, 
Pealed her loud drum, and twanged her trumpet horn ; 
Tumultuous horror brooded o'er her van, 
Presaging wrath to Poland — and to man ! ' ' 

20 . " How beautiful this night ! the balmiest sigh 

Which vernal zephyrs breathe in evening's ear 

Were discord to the speaking quietude 

That wraps this moveless scene. Heaven's ebon vault, 

Studded with stars unutterably bright, 

Through which the moon's unclouded grandeur rolls, 

Seems like a canopy which love has spread 

Above the sleeping world." 

Hints to the Eeader. 

Success as a reader requires — 

1. A good, full volume of voice. 

2. Correct articulation. 

3. Expression. 

Volume of voice may be acquired by continued practice. 

Begin with the use of gentle force and full, free utterance. Try to have 
all the breath vocalized; but on no account be sparing of the breath. By 
taking long draughts of air into the lungs and then being too frugal in 
expending them, injury may be done to the lungs and general health. 
The lungs require a certain amount of oxygen to purify the blood, and an}'- 
system of breathing that is not in accord with the wants of nature must 
be pernicious. 

The position of the reader or speaker should be both erect 



HEADING POETRY. 21 

and easy, so as to allow the lungs and larynx to act without 
hindrance. 

To bend the body forward restrains muscular action ; to allow the head 
to droop compresses the larynx and tends to give a nasal resonance to the 
voice. 

The action of the lungs is regulated — 

1. By the sentiment. 

2. By the size of the room. 

The sentiment will determine, in part, the quality of voice, the 
force, the movement, and the pitch ; and will have exclusive con- 
trol over emphases and pauses. 

In the employment of force, the practised speaker will always 
consider the size of the room and its acoustic properties. 

The expression of sentiment should be carefully considered. 
No kind of discourse is, properly speaking, devoid of sentiment. 
Even in conversation, a desire to interest a hearer will cause 
modulation and show eagerness to be understood. If a topic in 
which the emotions are aroused is discussed conversationally, 
there will be present in the utterance all the varieties of emphasis, 
stress, inflection, and waves of voice (in a subdued form) that 
would characterize full and unrestrained emotional expression. 

It is the occasion which regulates the volume of voice ; the sen- 
timent that controls all else. 

When reverence is the feeling that seeks expression, the force is 
subdued and the breathing free and deep. When excited by 
anger, the breathing is spasmodic (panting), and the words short 
and full. Indignation stirs the soul to its depths : the breathing 
is full and deep, and when words are used they come in groups, 
quickly succeeding each other, until they flow almost continuously. 
The expression of joy may be various ; but exultation groups 
words and utters them spasmodically. Transport despairs, at 
times, of expressing itself, and resorts to silence and a constrained 
quietness of utterance. Grief swells and bursts forth at intervals. 
Surprise is short and quick in utterance. Persuasion is gentle, 
full of waves and inflections. 



22 elocution. 

Reading Poetry. 

The rythm of verse usually requires a well-defined pause some- 
where near the middle of the line. This pause is called the 
Cesura. When the sentiment is solemn, this pause will come a 
syllable or two after the middle of the line ; but when the move- 
ment is quick, the pause will occur before the middle of the 
line. 

Whilst each word should be enunciated as distinctly in verse as 
in prose, any tendency to hold on to the end of each line, or to 
emphasize regularly the last word, should be guarded against. 
If there is any increase of force, it should be toward the cesura ; 
after the pause, a slight diminuendo. 

Again, where lines are closely joined by grammatical construc- 
tion, it is best to connect such lines in the same manner as if read- 
ing prose. 

In rhymed verse, the similarity of sounds will reach the ear 
more agreeably if read without any special attempt to make them 
prominent. 

Preparation of the Reading Lesson. 

1. Read the lesson over once or twice, 1 so as to understand the 
thoughts to be delivered. •> 

2. Decide next as to the general sentiment, taking note of any 
transitions that may occur. 

3. Whisper a few passages to help articulation. 

4. Practice upon the diatonic scale to improve modulation. 

5. Read aloud several times, in such a tone and with such 
accompaniments as the sentiment requires. 

6. Practice upon the emphasis, pauses, inflections, and stress. 

7. Read aloud two or three more times, carefully noting the 
difficult passages, and trying to make real improvement with each 
reading. 

8. Find out about the author. 

V 

1 Consult a dictionary for the meaning of unfamiliar words. 



PART II. 



SELECTIONS FOR READING. 

Hamlet's Instructions to the Players. 

" Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it to you, trip- 
pingly on the tongue ; but if you mouth it, as many of your players 
do, I had as lief the town-crier spoke my lines. Nor do not saw 
the air too much with your hand, thus ; but use all gently : for 
in the very torrent, tempest, and, as I may say, the whirlwind of 
passion, you must acquire and beget a temperance that may give 
it smoothness. O, it offends me to the soul to hear a robustious 
periwig-pated fellow tear a passion to tatters, to very rags, to split 
the ears of the groundlings, who, for the most part, are capable 
of nothing but inexplicable dumb shows and noise. I could have 
such a fellow whipped for o'erdoing Termagant; it out-herods 
Herod : pray you, avoid it. 

' ' Be not too tame neither, but let your own discretion be }^our 
tutor : suit the action to the word, the word to the action ; with 
this special observance, that you o'erstep not the modesty of 
nature ; for anything so overdone is from the purpose of playing, 
whose end, both at the first, and now, was and is, to hold, as 
't were, the mirror up to nature ; to show virtue her own feature, 
scorn her own image, and the very age and body of the time, his 
form and pressure. Now, this overdone, or come tardy off, 
though it make the unskilful laugh, cannot but make the judicious 
grieve ; the censure of the which one must, in your allowance, 
o'er-weigh a whole theatre of others. O, there be players that 
I have seen play, and heard others praise, and that highly, not to 

(23) 



24 SELECTIONS FOR READING-. 

speak it profanely, that, neither having the accent of Christians, 
nor the gait of Christian, pagan, nor man, have so strutted and 
bellowed, that I have thought some of Nature's journeymen had 
made men, and not made them well, they imitated humanity so 
abominably." — [William Shakspere. 



The Deserted Village. 

Sweet Auburn ! loveliest village of the plain, 
Where health and plenty cheer' d the laboring swain, 
Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid, 
And parting summer's lingering blooms delay' d ; 
Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease, 
Seats of my youth, when every sport could please ; 
How often have I loiter' d o'er thy green, 
Where humble happiness endear' d each scene ; 
How often have I paus'd on every charm, 
The shelter' d cot, the cultivated farm, 
The never-failing brook, the busy mill, 
The decent church that topt the neighbouring hill, 
The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade, 
For talking age and whisp'ring lovers made ' 
How often have I blest the coming day, 
When toil remitting lent its turn to play, 
And all the village train, from labor free, 
Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree, 
While many a pastime circled in the shade, 
The young contending as the old survey' d ; 
And many a gambol frolick'd o'er the ground, 
And sleights of art and feats of strength went round ! 
And still as each repeated pleasure tir'd, 
Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspir'd. 
The dancing pair that simply sought renown 
By holding out, to tire each other down ; 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 25 

The swain, mistrustless of his smutted face, 
While secret laughter titter' cl round the place ; 
The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love, . 
The matron's glance that would those looks reprove — 
These were thy charms, sweet village ! sports like these 
With sweet succession, taught even toil to please ; 
These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed, — 
These were thy charms — but all these charms are fled. 

Sweet, smiling village, loveliest of the lawn, 
Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn ; 
Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen, 
And desolation saddens all thy green : 
One only master grasps the whole domain, 
And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain. 
No more thy glassy brook reflects the day, 
But, chok'd with sedges, works its weedy way ; 
Along thy glades, a solitary guest, 
The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest ; 
Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies, 
And tires their echoes with unvaried cries. 
Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all, 
And the long grass o'ertops the mould' ring wall ; 
And, trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand, 
Far, far away thy children leave the land. 

Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey, 
Where wealth accumulates, and men deca} r ; 
Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade ; 
A breath can make them, as a breath has made ; 
But a bold peasantry, their country's pride, 
When once destroy' d, can never be supplied. 

But times are alter' d; trade's unfeeling train 
Usurp the land, and dispossess the swain ; 
Along the lawn, where scatter' d hamlets rose, 
Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp repose ; 



26 SELECTIONS FOR READING. 

And every want to luxury allied, 

And every pang that folly pays to pride. 

Those gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom, 

Those calm desires that ask'd but little room, 

Those healthful sports that grac'd the peaceful scene, 

Lived in each look, and brighten' d all the green ; 

These, far departing, seek a kinder shore, 

And rural mirth and manners are no more. 

— [Oliver Goldsmith. 



A Sea Voyage. 



To an American visiting Europe, the long voyage he has to 
make is an excellent preparative.' From the moment you lose 
sight of the land you have left, all is vacancy, until you step on 
the opposite shore, and are launched at once into the bustle and 
novelties of another world. 

I have said that at sea all is vacancjr. I should correct the 
expression. To one given up to day-dreaming, and fond of losing 
himself in reveries, a sea-voyage is full of subjects for medita- 
tion ; but then they are the wonders of the deep, and of the air, 
and rather tend to abstract the mind from worldly themes. I 
delighted to loll over the quarter-railing, or climb to the main-top 
on a calm day, and muse for hours together on the tranquil bosom 
of a summer's sea; or to gaze upon the piles of golden clouds 
just peering above the horizon, fancy them some fairy realms, and 
people them with a creation of my own ; or to watch the gentle 
undulating billows rolling their silver volumes as if to die away 
on those happy shores. 

There was a delicious sensation of mingled security and awe, 
with which I looked down from my giddy height on the- monsters 
of the deep at their uncouth gambols ; shoals of porpoises tum- 
bling about the bow of the ship ; the grampus slowly heaving his 
huge form above the surface ; or the ravenous shark, darting like 
a spectre through the blue waters. My imagination would conjure 



THE AMERICAN FLAG. 27 

up all that I had heard or read of the watery world beneath me ; 
of the finny herds that roam its fathomless valleys ; of shapeless 
monsters that lurk among the very foundations of the earth ; and 
those wild phantasms that swell the tales of fishermen and sailors. 

We one day descried some shapeless object drifting at a dis- 
tance. At sea, everything that breaks the monotony of the sur- 
rounding expanse attracts attention. It proved to be the mast of 
a ship that must have been completely wrecked ; for there were 
the remains of handkerchiefs, by which some of the crew had 
fastened themselves to this spar, to prevent their being washed off 
by the waves. 

There was no trace by which the name of the ship could be 
ascertained. The wreck had evidently drifted for many months ; 
clusters of shell-fish had fastened about it, and long sea-weeds 
flaunted at its sides. But where, thought I, are the crew? Their 
struggle has long been over. They have gone down amidst the 
roar of the tempest. Their bones lie whitening among the caverns 
of the deep. Silence, oblivion, like the waves, have closed over 
them, and no one can tell the story of their end. 

The sight of the wreck, as usual, gave rise to many dismal 
anecdotes. This was particularly the case in the evening, when 
the weather, which had hitherto been fair, began to look wild and 
threatening, and gave indications of one of those sudden storms 
which will sometimes break in upon the serenity of a summer 
voyage. — [ Washington Irving. 



The American Flag. 

When Freedom, from her mountain height, 
Unfurled her standard to the air, 

She tore the azure robe of night, 
And set the stars of glory there ! 

She mingled with its gorgeous dyes 

The milky baldric of the skies, 



28 SELECTIONS FOR READING. 

And striped its pure, celestial white, 
With streamings of the morning light. 
Then, from his mansion in the sun, 
She called her eagle-bearer down, 
And gave into his mighty hand 
The symbol of her chosen land ! 

Majestic monarch of the cloud ! 

Who rear'st aloft thy regal form, 
To hear the tempest-trumpings loud, 
And see the lightning lances driven, 
When strive the warriors of the storm, 
And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven ; 
Child of the Sun! to thee 'tis given 
To guard the banner of the free, 
To hover in the sulphur smoke, 
To ward away the battle-stroke, 
And bid its blendings shine afar, 
Like rainbows on the cloud of war, 

The harbingers of victory ! 

Flag of the brave ! thy folds shall fly, 
The sign of hope and triumph high ! 
When speaks the signal-trumpet tone, 
And the long line comes gleaming on, 
Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet, 
Has dimmed the glistening bayonet, 
Each soldier eye shall brightly turn 
To where thy sky-born glories burn, 
And, as his springing steps advance, 
Catch war and vengeance from the glance. 
And, when the cannon-mouthings lo id 
Heave in wild wreaths the battle shroud, 
And gory sabres rise and fall 
Like shoots of flame on midnight's pall, ■ 



THE LOVE OF NATURE AND OP SCENERY. 29 

Then shall thy meteor glances glow, 
And cowering foes shall shrink beneath 

Each gallant arm that strikes below 
That lovely messenger of death. 

Flag of the seas ! on ocean wave 
Thy stars shall glitter o'er the brave ; 
When death, careering on the gale, 
Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail, 
And frighted waves rush wildly back 
Before the broadside's reeling rack, 
Each dying wanderer of the sea 
Shall look at once to heaven and thee, 
And smile to see thy splendors fly 
In triumph o'er his closing eye. 

Flag of the free heart's hope and home, 

By angel hands to valor given, 
Thy stars have lit the welkin dome, 

And all thy hues were born in heaven. 
Forever float that standard sheet ! 

Where breathes the foe but falls before us, 
With Freedom's soil beneath our feet, 

And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us? 

— [Joseph Rodman Drake. 



The Love op Nature and of Scenery. 

It is strange to observe the callousness of some men before 
whom all the glories of heaven and earth pass in daily succession, 
without touching their hearts, elevating their fancy, or leaving any 
durable remembrance. Even of those who pretend to sensibility, 
how many are there to whom the luster of the rising or setting 
sun, the sparkling concave of the midnight sky, the mountain 
forest, tossing and roaring to the storm, or warbling with all the 



30 SELECTIONS FOE, READING. 

melodies of a summer evening ; the sweet interchange of hill and 
dale, shade and sunshine, grove, lawn, and water, which an exten- 
sive landscape offers to the view; the scenery of the ocean, so 
lovely, so majestic, and so tremendous, and the many pleasing 
varieties of the animal and vegetable kingdom, could never afford 
so much real satisfaction as the steams and noise of a ball-room, 
the insipid fiddling and squeaking of an opera, or the vexations 
and wrangiings of a card-table ! 

But some minds there are of a different make, who, even in the 
early part of life, receive from the contemplation of nature a 
species of delight which they would hardly exchange for any 
other ; and who, as avarice and ambition are not the infirmities of 
that period, would, with equal sincerity and rapture, exclaim : — 

" I care not, Fortune, what you me deny ; 
You can not rob me of free nature's grace, 
You can not shut the windows of the sky, 
Through which Aurora shows her brightening face ; 
You can not bar my constant feet to trace 
The woods and lawns by living stream at eve." 

Such minds have always in them the seeds of true taste, and 
frequently of imitative genius. At least, though their enthusiastic 
or visionary turn of mind, as the man of the world would call 
it, should not always incline them to practice poetry or painting, 
we need not scruple to affirm- that, without some portion of this 
enthusiasm, no person ever became a true poet or painter. For 
he who would imitate the works of nature, must first accurately 
observe them, and accurate observation is to be expected from 
those only who take great pleasure in it. 

To a mind thus disposed, no part of creation is indifferent. In 
the crowded city and howling wilderness, in the cultivated prov- 
ince and solitary isle, in the flowery lawn and craggy mountain, 
in the murmur of the rivulet and in the uproar of the ocean, in 
the radiance of summer and gloom of winter, (fii the thunder of 
heaven and in the whisper of the breeze, he still finds something 
to rouse or to soothe his imagination, to draw forth his affections, 



A PSALM OF LIFE. 31 

or to employ his understanding. And from every mental energy 
that is not attended with pain, and even from some of those that 
are, as moderate terror and pity, a sound mind derives satisfaction ; 
exercise being equally necessary to the body and the soul, and to 
both equally productive of health and pleasure. — [James Beattie. 



A Psalm of Life. 

Tell me not, in mournful numbers, 
' ' Life is but an empty dream ! ' ' 

For the soul is dead that slumbers, 
And things are not what they seem 

Life is real ! Life is earnest ! 

And the grave is not its goal ; 
"Dust thou art, to dust returnest," 

Was not spoken of the soul. 

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, 

Is our destined end or way, 
But to act, that each to-morrow 

Find us farther than to-day. 

Art is long, and Time is fleeting, 

And our hearts, though strong and brave, 
Still, like muffled drums, are beating 

Funeral marches to the grave. 

In the world's broad field of battle, 

In the bivouac of Life, 
Be not like dumb, driven cattle ! 

Be a hero in the strife ! 

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant! 

Let the dead Past bury its dead ! 
Act, — act in the living Present ! 

Heart within, and God o'erhead! 



32 SELECTIONS FOR READING. 

Lives of great men all remind us 

We can make our lives sublime, 
And, departing, leave behind us 

Footprints on the sands of time ; 

Footprints, that perhaps another, 

Sailing o'er life's solemn main, 
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, 

Seeing, shall take heart again. 

Let us, then, be up and doing, 

With a heart for any fate ; 
Still achieving, still pursuing, 

Learn to labor and to wait. 

— \_Henry W. Longfellow. 



Scrooge and Marley. 

Marley was dead to begin with. There is no doubt whatever 
about that. The register of his burial was signed by the clergy- 
man, the clerk, the undertaker, and the chief mourner. Scrooge 
signed it; and Scrooge's name was good upon 'Change, for any- 
thing he chose to put his hand to. Old Marley was as dead as a 
door-nail. Mind! I don't mean to say that I know, of my own 
knowledge, what there is particularly dead about a door-nail: 
I might have been inclined, myself, to regard a coffin-nail as the 
deadest piece of ironmongery in the trade. But the wisdom of 
our ancestors is in the simile ; and my unhallowed hands shall not 
disturb it, or the Country's done for. You will therefore permit 
me to repeat, emphatically, that Marley was as dead as a door- 
nail. 

Scrooge knew, he was dead ? Of course he did. How could it 
be otherwise ? Scrooge and he were partners for I don't know 
how many years. Scrooge was his sole executor, his sole admin- 
istrator, his sole assign, his sole residuary legatee, his sole friend, 
and sole mourner. And even Scrooge was not so dreadfully cut 



SCROOGE AND MARLEY. 33 

up by the sad event, but that he was an excellent man of business 
on the very day of the funeral, and solemnized it with an undoubted 
bargain. 

Scrooge never painted out old Marley's name. There it stood,, 
years afterwards, above the warehouse door: Scrooge and Marley, 
The firm was known as Scrooge and Marley. Sometimes, people 
new to the business called Scrooge, Scrooge, and sometimes, Mar- 
ley ; but he answered to both names : it was all the same to him. 

Oh ! But he was a tight-fisted hand at the grindstone, Scrooge ! 
a squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous 
old sinner! Hard and sharp as flint, from which no steel had 
ever struck out generous fire ; secret and self-contained, and soli- 
tary as an oyster. The cold within him froze his old features, 
nipped his pointed nose, shriveled his cheek, stiffened his gait ; 
made his eyes red, his thin lips blue ; and spoke out shrewdly in 
his grating voice. A frosty rime was on his head, and on his 
eyebrows, and his wiry chin. He carried his own low temperature 
always about with him ; he iced his office in the dog-days ; and 
didn't thaw it one degree at Christmas. 

External heat and cold had little influence on Scrooge. No 
warmth could warm, nor wintry weather chill him. No wind that 
blew was bitterer than he ; no falling snow was more intent upon 
its purpose ; no pelting rain less open to entreaty. Foul weather 
didn't know where to have him. The heaviest rain, and snow, 
and hail, and sleet, could boast of the advantage over him in only 
one respect. They often "came down" handsomely, and Scrooge 
never did. 

Nobody ever stopped him in the street to say, with gladsome 
looks, "My dear Scrooge, how are you? when will you come to 
see me ? " No beggars implored him to bestow a trifle ; no children 
asked him what it was o'clock ; no man or woman ever once in all 
his life inquired the way to such and such a place, of Scrooge. 
Even the blind-men's dogs appeared to know him ; and when they 
saw him coming on, would tug their owners into doorways and up 
courts ; and then would wag their tails as though they said, " no 
eye at all is better than an evil eye, dark master ! " 

3 



SELECTIONS FOR READING. 



But what did Scrooge care ? It was the very thing he liked. 
To edge his way along the crowded paths of life, warning all 
human sympathy to keep its distance, was what the knowing ones 
call "nuts" to Scrooge. — \_Charles Dickens. 



The Finding of the Ltre. 

There lay upOn the ocean's shore, 

What once a tortoise served to cover : 
A year and more, with rush and roar, 

The surf had rolled it over, 
Had played with it, and flung it by, 

As wind and weather might decide it, 
Then tossed it high, where sand-drifts dry 

Cheap burial might provide it. 

It rested there to bleach or tan, 

The rains had soaked, the suns had burned it : 
With many a ban the fisherman 

Had stumbled o'er and spurned it ; 
And there the fisher-girl would stay, 

Conjecturing with her brother, 
How in their play the poor estray 

Might serve some use or other. 

So there it lay, through wet and dry, 

As empty as the last new sonnet, 
Till by and by came Mercury, 

And having mused upon it, — 
"Why here," cried he, "the thing of things, 

In shape, material, and dimension ; 
Give it but strings, and, lo ! it sings ! 

A wonderful invention ! ' ' 

So said, so done ; — the chords he strained, 
And, as his fingers o'er them hovered, 



THE CROSSING OF THE RUBICON. 35 

The shell disdained, a soul had gained, — 

The lyre had been discovered. 
O empty world that round us lies, 

Dead shell, of soul and thought forsaken, 
Brought we but eyes like Mercury's, 

In thee what songs would waken ! 

— [James Russell Lowell. 



The Crossing of the Rubicon. 

A gentleman, Mr. President, speaking of Caesar's benevolent 
disposition and of the reluctance with which he had entered into 
the civil war, observes, "How long did he pause upon the brink 
of the Rubicon ? " How came he to the brink of that river ! 
How dared he cross it ! Shall private men respect the boundaries 
of private property, and shall a man pay no respect to the bound- 
aries of his country's rights? How dared he cross that river! 
Oh, but he paused upon the brink ! He should have perished upon 
the brink ere he had crossed it ! Why did he pause ? Why does 
a man's heart palpitate when he is on the point of committing an 
unlawful deed? Why does the very murderer, his victim sleep- 
ing before him, and his glaring eye taking the measure of the 
blow, strike wide of the mortal part? Because of conscience! 
'Twas that made Caesar pause upon the brink of the Rubicon. 
Compassion ! What compassion ? The compassion of an assassin, 
that feels a momentary shudder as his weapon begins to cut ! 

Caesar paused upon the brink of the Rubicon. What was the 
Rubicon? The boundary of Caesar's province. From what did it 
separate that province? From his country. Was that country 
a desert? No: it was cultivated and fertile, rich and populous. 
Its sons were men of genius, spirit, and generosity. Its daugh- 
ters were lovely, susceptible, and chaste. Friendship was its 
inhabitant. Love was its inhabitant. Domestic affection was its 
inhabitant. Liberty was its inhabitant. All bounded by the 



36 SELECTIONS FOR READING. 

stream of the Rubicon! What was Caesar, that stood upon the 
bank of that stream ? A traitor, bringing war and pestilence into 
the heart of that country. No wonder that he paused, — no 
wonder, if, his imagination wrought upon by his conscience, he 
had beheld blood instead of water, and heard groans instead of 
murmurs! No wonder, if some gorgon horror had turned him 
into stone upon the spot ! But, no ! he cried, ' ' The die is cast ! ' ' 
He plunged, — he crossed, — and Rome was free no more. — 
[James Sheridan Knowles. 



Leonid as. 



Shout for the mighty men 

Who died along this shore, 
Who died within this mountain glen ! 
For never nobler chieftain's head 
Was laid on valor's crimson bed, 

Nor ever prouder gore 
Sprang forth, than theirs who won the day 
Upon thy strand, Thermopylae ! 

Shout for the mighty men 

Who on the Persian tents, 
Like lions from their midnight den 
Bounding on the slumbering deer, 
Rushed — a storm of sword and spear : 

Like the roused elements, 
Let loose from an immortal hand 
To chasten or to crush a land ! 

But there are none to hear — 
Greece is a hopeless slave. 
LeOnidas ! no hand is near 
To lift thy fiery falchion now : 
No warrior makes the warrior's vow 



SUMMARY PUNISHMENT. 37 

Upon thy sea- washed grave. 
The voice that should be raised by men 
Must now be given by wave and glen. 

And it is given ! — the surge, 

The tree, the rock, the sand 
On Freedom's kneeling spirit urge, 
In sounds that speak but to the free, 
The memory of thine and thee ! 

The vision of thy band 
Still gleams within the glorious dell 
Where their gore hallowed as it fell ! 

And is thy grandeur done ? 

Mother of men like these ! 
Has not thy outcry gone 
Where Justice has an ear to hear ? — 
Be holy ! God shall guide thy spear, 

Till in thy crimsoned seas 
Are plunged the chain and scimitar. 
Greece shall be a new-born star ! 

— [George Croly. 



Summary Punishment. 

It was under the burning influence of revenge that the wife of 
MacGregor commanded that the hostage exchanged for her hus- 
band's safety, should be brought into her presence. I believe her 
sons had kept this unfortunate wretch out of her sight, for fear 
of the consequences ; but if it was so, their humane precaution 
only postponed his fate. They dragged forward, at her sum- 
mons, a wretch, already half dead with terror, in whose agonized 
features I recognized, to my horror and astonishment, my old 
acquaintance Morris. 

He fell prostrate before the female chief, with an effort to clasp 



38 SELECTIONS FOR READING. 

her knees, from which she drew back, as if his touch had been 
pollution, so that all he could do in token of the extremity of his 
humiliation, was to kiss the hem of her plaid. I never heard 
entreaties for life poured forth with such agony of spirit. The 
ecstasy of fear was such, that, instead of paralyzing his tongue, as 
on ordinary occasions, it even rendered him eloquent ; and, with 
cheeks as pale as ashes, hands compressed in agony, eyes that 
seemed to be taking their last look of all mortal objects, he prayed 
for life — for life he would give all he had in the world ; — it 
was but life he asked — life, if it were to be prolonged under tor- 
tures and privations ; — he asked only breath, though it should be 
drawn in the depths of the lowest caverns of their hills. 

It is impossible to describe the scorn, the loathing and contempt, 
with which the wife of MacGregor regarded this wretched peti- 
tion for the poor boon of existence. 

She gave a brief command, in Gaelic, to her attendants, two of 
whom seized upon the prostrate suppliant, and hurried him to the 
brink of a cliff which overhung the flood. He set up the most 
piercing and dreadful cries that fear ever uttered — I may well 
term them dreadful ; for they haunted my sleep for years after- 
wards. As the murderers, or executioners, call them as you will, 
dragged him along, he recognized me, even in that moment of 
horror, and exclaimed, in the last articulate words I ever heard 
him utter, " O, Mr. Osbalclistone, save me! — save me! " 

I was so much moved by this horrid spectacle, that, although in 
momentary expectation of sharing his fate, I did attempt to speak 
in his behalf ; but, as might have been expected, my interference 
was sternly disregarded. The victim was held fast by some, while 
others, binding a large heavy stone in a plaid, tied it around his 
neck, and others again, eagerly stripped him of some part of his 
dress. Half naked, and thus manacled, they hurried him. into 
the lake, there about twelve feet deep, drowning his last death- 
shriek with a loud halloo of vindictive triumph, over which, how- 
ever, the yell of mortal agony was distinctly heard. The heavy 
burden splashed in the dark blue waters of the lake ; and the 
Highlanders, with their pole-axes and swords, watched an instant, 



THE SOLDIER'S DREAM. 39 

to guard, lest, extricating himself from the load to which he was 
attached, he might have struggled to regain the shore. But the 
knot had been securely bound; the victim sunk without effort; 
the waters, which his fall had disturbed, settled calmly over him ; 
and the unit of that life for which he had pleaded so strongly, was 
forever withdrawn from the sum of human existence. — [Walter 
Scott. 



The Soldier's Dream. 

Our bugles sang truce, — for the night-cloud had lowered, 
And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky ; 

And thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered, 
The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die. 

When reposing that night on my pallet of straw, 
By the wolf -scaring fagot that guarded the slain ; 

At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw, 
And thrice ere the morning, I dreamt it again. 

Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array, 
Far, far I had roamed on a desolate track : 

'Twas autumn, — and sunshine arose on the way 
To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back. 

I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft 

In life's morning march, when my bosom was 3 r oung ; 

I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft, 

And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung. 

Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore, 
From my home and my weeping friends never to part ; 

My little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er, 
And my wife sobbed aloud in her fulness of heart. 



40 SELECTIONS FOR READING. 

4 ' Stay, stay with us — rest, thou art weary and worn ! ' ' 
And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay ; — 

But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn, 
And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away. 

— [Thomas Campbell. 



The Landing of the Pilgrims. 

The breaking waves dashed high 

On a stern and rock-bound coast, 
And the woods, against a stormy sky 

Their giant branches tossed ; 

And the heavy night hung dark 

The hills and waters o'er, 
When a band of exiles moored their bark 

On the wild New England shore. 

Not as the conqueror comes, 

They, the true-hearted came ; 
Not with the roll of the stirring drums, 

And the trumpet that sings of fame ; 

Not as the flying come, 

In silence and in fear ; 
They shook the depths of the desert gloom, 

With their hymns of lofty cheer. 

Amidst the storm they sang, 

And the stars heard, and the sea ; 
And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang 

To the anthem of the free. 

The ocean-eagle soared 

From his nest, by the white wave's foam, 
And the rocking pines of the forest roared, — 

Such was their welcome home ! 

— [Felicia Hemans. 



1 



THE MARINER'S DREAM. 41 



The Mariner's Dream. 



In slumbers of midnight the sailor-boy lay, 

His hammock swung loose at the sport of the wind ; 

But watch- worn and weary, his cares flew away, 
And visions of happiness danced o'er his mind. 

He dreamt of his home, of his dear native bowers, 
And pleasures that waited on life's merry morn ; 

While memory stood sideways half covered with flowers, 
And restored every rose, but secreted its thorn. 

Then Fancy her magical pinions spread wide, 
And bade the young dreamer in ecstasy rise ; 

Now far, far behind him the green waters glide, 
And the cot of his forefathers blesses his eyes. 

The jessamine clambers in flowers o'er the thatch, 

And the swallow chirps sweet from her nest in the wall ; 

All trembling with transport, he raises the latch, 
And the voices of loved ones reply to his call. 

A father bends o'er him with looks of delight, — 
His cheek is impcarled with a mother's warm tear ; 

And the lips of the boy in a love-kiss unite 

With the lips of the maid whom his bosom holds dear. 

The heart of the sleeper beats high in his breast ; 

Joy quickens his pulses, — his hardships seem o'er ; 
And a murmur of happiness steals through-his rest, — 

" O God ! thou hast blest me, — I ask for no more." 

Ah ! whence is that flame which now bursts on his eye ? 

Ah! what is that sound which now 'larms on his ear? 
'Tis the lightning's red gleam, painting hell on the sky! 

'Tis the crashing of thunders, the groan of the sphere ! 



42 SELECTIONS FOR READING. 

He springs from his hammock, he flies to the deck ; 

Amazement confronts him with images dire ; 
Wild winds and mad waves drive the vessel a wreck ; 

The masts fly in splinters ; the shrouds are on fire. 

Like mountains the billows tremendously swell ; 

In vain the lost wretch calls on mercy to save ; 
Unseen hands of spirits are ringing his knell, 

And the death- angel flaps his dark wings o'er the wavet 

O sailor-boy, woe to thy dream of delight ! 

In darkness dissolves the gay frost-work of bliss. 
Where now is the picture that fancy touched bright, 

Tlry parents' fond pressure, and love's honeyed Mss? 

O sailor-boy ! sailor-boy ! never again 

Shall home, love, or kindred thy wishes repay ; 

Unblessed and unhonored, down deep in the main, 
Full many a fathom, thy frame shall decay. 

No tomb shall e'er plead to remembrance for thee, 
Or redeem form or fame from the merciless surge, 

But the white foam of waves shall thy winding sheet be, 
And winds in the midnight of winter thy dirge ! 

On beds of green sea-flowers thy limbs shall be laid, — 
Around thy white bones the red coral shall grow ; 

Of thy fair yellow locks threads of amber be made, 
And every part suit to thy mansion below. 

Days, months, years, and ages shall circle awa3 T , 
And still the vast waters above thee shall roll ; 

Earth loses thy pattern forever and aye. — 
O sailor-boy ! sailor-boy ! peace to thy soul ! 

— [ William Dimond. 



merchant of venice. 43 

Merchant of Venice. 
Act I., Scene II. 

Portia. By my troth, Nerissa, my little body is aweary of this 
great world. 

Nerissa. You would be, sweet madam, if your miseries were in 
the same abundance as your good fortunes are ; and yet, for 
aught I see, they are as sick that surfeit with too much, as they 
that starve with nothing. It is no small happiness, therefore, to 
be seated in the mean : superfluity comes sooner by white hairs, 
but competency lives longer. 

Portia. Good sentences, and well pronounced. 

Nerissa. They would be better, if well followed. 

Portia. If to do were as easy as to know what were good to 
do, chapels had been churches, and poor men's cottages princes' 
palaces. It is- a good divine that follows his own instructions : I 
can easier teach twenty what were good to be done, than be one of 
the twenty to follow mine own teaching. The brain may devise 
laws for the blood; but a hot temper leaps o'er a cold decree: 
such a hare is madness the youth, to skip o'er the meshes of good 
counsel the cripple. But this reasoning is not in the fashion to 
choose me a husband. O me, the word cJioose I I may neither 
choose whom I would, nor refuse whom I dislike ; so is the will 
of a living daughter curb'd by the will of a dead father. Is it 
not hard, Nerissa, that I cannot choose one, or refuse none? 

Nerissa. Your father was ever virtuous ; and holy men at their 
death have good inspirations : therefore, the lottery that he hath 
devised in these three chests of gold, silver, and lead — whereof 
he who chooses his meaning chooses jon — will no doubt never 
be chosen by any rightly, but one who shall rightly love. But 
what warmth is there in your affection towards any of these 
princely suitors that are already come? 

Portia. I pray thee over-name them, and, as thou namest 



44 SELECTIONS FOR READING. 

them, I will describe them; and, according to my description, 
level at my affection. 

Nerissa. First, there is the Neapolitan Prince. 

Portia. Ay, that's a colt indeed, for he doth nothing but talk 
of his horse ; and he makes it a great appropriation to his own 
good parts, that he can shoe him himself. 

Nerissa. Then is there the County Palatine. 

Portia. He doth nothing but frown ; as who should say, ' ' If 
you will not have me, choose.'" He hears merry tales, and smiles 
not : I fear he will prove the weeping philosopher when he grows 
old, being so full of unmannerly sadness in his youth. I had 
rather be married to a death's head with a bone in his mouth than 
to either of these. God defend me from these two ! 

Nerissa. How say you by the French lord; Monsieur Le 
Bon? 

Portia. God made him, and therefore let him pass for a man. 
In truth, I know it is a sin to be a mocker : but, he ! why, he hath 
a horse better than the Neapolitan's ; a better bad habit of frown- 
ing than the Count Palatine: he is every man in no man: if a 
throstle sing, he falls straight a-capering ! he will fence with his 
own shadow. If I should marry him, I should marry twenty hus- 
bands. If he would despise me, I would forgive him ; for if he 
love me to madness, I shall never requite him. 

Nerissa. What say you then to Falconbridge, the young baron 
of England ? 

Portia. You know I say nothing to him ; for he understands 
not me, nor I him ; he hath neither Latin, French, nor Italian ; 
and you will come into the court and swear that I have a poor 
pennyworth in the English. He is a proper man's picture ; but, 
alas, who can converse with a dumb show? How oddly he is 
suited ! I think he bought his doublet in Italy, his round hose 
in France, his bonnet in Germany, and his behaviour every- 
where. 

Nerissa. What think you of the Scottish lord, his neighbour? 

Portia. That he hath a neighbourly charity in him ; for he bor- 



MERCHANT OF VENICE. 45 

rowed a box of the ear of the Englishman, and swore he would 
pay him again when he was able. I think the Frenchman became 
his surety and sealed under for another. 

Nerissa. How like you the young German, the Duke of Sax- 
ony's nephew? 

Portia. Very vilely in the morning when he is sober, and most 
vilely in the afternoon when he is drunk ; when he is best, he U a 
little worse than a man ; and when he is worst, he is little better 
than a beast. An the worst fall that ever fell, I hope I shall make 
shift to go without him, 

Nerissa. If he should offer to choose, and choose the right 
casket, you should refuse to perform your father's will, if you 
should refuse to accept him. 

Portia. Therefore, for fear of the worst, I pray thee, set a deep 
glass of Ehenish wine on the contrary casket ; for if the Devil be 
within, and that temptation without, I know he will choose it. I 
will do anything, Nerissa, ere I will be married to a sponge. 

Nerissa. You need not fear, lady, the having of any of these 
lords : they have acquainted me with their determinations ; which 
is, indeed, to return to their home, and to trouble you with no 
more suit, unless you may be won by some other sort than your 
father's imposition depending upon the casket. 

Portia. If I live to be as old as Sibylla, I will die as chaste as 
Diana, unless I be obtained by the manner of my father's will. I 
am glad this parcel of wooers are so reasonable ; for there is not 
one among them bat I dote on his very absence ; and I pray God 
grant them a fair departure. 

Nerissa. Do you not remember, lady, in your father's time, a 
Venetian, a scholar, and a soldier, that came hither in company of 
the Marquess of Montf errat ? 

Portia. Yes, yes ; it was Bassanio ; as I think, so was he call'd. 

Nerissa. True, madam ; he, of all the men that ever my fool- 
ish eyes look'd upon, was the best deserving a fair lady. 

Portia. I remember him well ; and I remember him worthy of 
thy praise. — [William SJiakspere. 



46 SELECTIONS FOR READING. 



Marco Bozzaris. 

At midnight, in his guarded tent, 

The Turk was dreaming of the hour 
When Greece her knee in suppliance bent, 

Should tremble at his power. 
In dreams, through camp and court, he bore 
The trophies of a conqueror ; 

In dreams his song of triumph heard ; 
Then wore his monarch's signet-ring, 
Then pressed that monarch's throne — a king ; 
As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing, 

As Eden's garden bird. 

At midnight, in the forest shades, 

Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band, — 
True as the steel of their tried blades, 

Heroes in heart and hand. 
There had the Persian's thousands stood, 
There had the glad earth drunk their blood, 

On old Platasa's day ; 
And now there breathed that haunted air 
The sons of sires who conquered there, 
With arms to strike, and soul to dare, 

As quick, as far, as they. 

An hour passed on, the Turk awoke : 

That bright dream was his last ; 
He woke — to hear his sentries shriek, 
"To arms! they come! the Greek! the Greek!" 
He woke — to die midst flame, and smoke, 
And shout, and groan, and sabre-stroke, 

And death-shots falling thick and fast 
As lightnings from the mountain cloud ; 
And heard, with voice as trumpet loud, 

Bozzaris cheer his band : 






MARCO BOZZARIS. 47 

" Strike — till the last armed foe expires ; 
Strike — for your altars and your fires ; 
Strike — for the green graves of your sires, 
God, and your native land ! ' ' 

They fought — like brave men, long and well ; 

They piled that ground with Moslem slain : 
They conquered — but Bozzaris fell, 

Bleeding at every vein. 
His few surviving comrades saw 
His smile, when rang their proud hurrah, 

And the red field was won ; 
Then saw in death his eyelids close 
Calmly, as to a night's repose, 

Like flowers at set of sun. 

Come to the bridal chamber, death, 

Come to the mother's, when she feels, 
For the first time, her first-born's breath ; 

Come when the blessed seals 
That close the pestilence are broke, 
And crowded cities wail its stroke ; 
Come in consumption's ghastly form, 
The earthquake shock, the ocean storm'; 
Come when the heart beats high and warm, 

With banquet song, and dance, and wine, — 
And thou art terrible ; the tear, 
The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier, 
And all we know, or dream, or fear 

Of agony, are thine. 

But to the hero, when his sword 

Has won the battle for the free, 
Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word, 
And in its hollow tones are heard 

The thanks of millions j^et to be. 



48 SELECTIONS FOR READING. 

Come when his task of fame is wrought ; 
Come with her laurel-leaf, blood-bought ; 

Come in her crowning hour, — and then 
Thy sunken eye's unearthly light 
To him is welcome as the sight 

Of sky and stars to prisoned men ; 
Thy grasp is welcome as the hand 
Of brother in a foreign land ; 
Thy summons welcome as the cry 
That told the Indian isles were nigh 

To the world-seeking Genoese, 
When the land-wind, from woods of palm, 
And orange-groves, and fields of balm, 

Blew o'er the Hatian seas. 

— [Fitz- Greene Halleck. 



The Bugle Song. 



The splendor falls on castle walls 

And snowy summits old in story ; 
The long light shakes across the lakes, 
And the wild cataract leaps in glory. 
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, 
Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. 

O hark, O hear, how thin and clear, 

And thinner, clearer, farther going ; 
O sweet and far, from cliff and scar, 
The horns of Elfland faintly blowing ! 
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying : 
Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. 

O love, they die in yon rich sky, 
They faint on hill, or field, or river ; 



ADDRESS TO THE AMERICAN TROOPS. 49 

Our echoes roll from soul to soul, 
And grow forever and forever. 
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, 
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying. 

— [Alfred Tennyson. 



Address to the American Troops before the Battle op Long 

Island, 1776. 

The time is now near at hand, which must probably determine 
whether Americans are to be freemen or slaves ; whether they are 
to have any property they can call their own ; whether their houses 
and farms are to be pillaged and destroyed, and themselves con- 
signed to a state of wretchedness, from which no human efforts 
will deliver them. The fate of unborn millions will now depend, 
under God, on the courage and conduct of this army. Our cruel 
and unrelenting enemy leaves us only the choice of a brave resist- 
ance, or the most abject submission. We have, therefore, to re- 
solve to conquer or to die. 

Our own, our country's honor, calls upon us for a vigorous and 
manly exertion ; and if we now shamefully fail, we shall become 
infamous to the whole world. Let us, then, rely on the goodness 
of our cause, and the aid of the Supreme Being, in whose hands 
victory is, to animate and encourage us to great and noble actions. 
The eyes of all our countrymen are now upon us, and we shall 
have their blessings and praises, if happily we are the instruments 
of saving them from the tyranny meditated against them. Let 
us, therefore, animate and encourage each other, and show the 
whole world, that a freeman contending for liberty on his own 
ground, is superior to any slavish mercenary on earth. 

Liberty, property, life, and honor are all at stake ; upon your 
courage and conduct rest the hopes of our bleeding and insulted 
country ; our wives, children, and parents expect safety from us 
only; and they have every reason to believe that Heaven will 
crown with success so just a cause. 

4 



50 SELECTIONS FOR READING. 

The enemy will endeavor to intimidate by show and appearance ; 
but remember they have been repulsed on various occasions by a 
few brave Americans. Their cause is bad — their men are con- 
scious of it ; and if opposed with firmness and coolness on their 
first onset, with our advantage of works and knowledge of the 
ground, the victory is most assuredly ours. Every good soldier 
will be silent and attentive — wait for orders — and reserve his 
fire until he is sure of doing execution. — [George Washington. 



Charge of the Light Brigade. 

Half a league, half a league, 
Half a league onward, 
All in the valley of Death 

Rode the six hundred. 
4 ' Forward, the Light Brigade ! 
Charge for the guns ! " he said: 
Into the valley of Death 

Rode the six hundred. 

" Forward, the Light Brigade I" 
Was there a man dismayed ? 
Not tho' the soldier knew 

Some one had blundered : 
Theirs not to make reply, 
Theirs not to reason why , 
Theirs but to do or die ; 
Into the valley of Death 

Rode the six hundred^ 

Cannon to right of them, 
Cannon to left of them, 
Cannon in front of them 
Volleyed and thundered ; 



CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE. 51 

Stormed at with shot and shell, 
Boldly they rode and well, 
Into the jaws of Death, 
Into the mouth of Hell, 
Rode the six hundred. 

Flashed all their sabres bare, 
Flashed as they turned in air, 
Sabring the gunners there, 
Charging an army, while 

All the world wondered : 
Plunged in the battery smoke, 
Right thro' the line they broke ; 
Cossack and Russian 
Reeled from the sabre-stroke, 

Shattered and sundered. 
Then they rode back, but not, 

Not the six hundred. 

Cannon to right of them, 
Cannon to left of them, 
Cannon behind them, 

Volleyed and thundered ; 
Stormed at with shot and shell, 
While horse and hero fell. 
They that had fought so well 
Came through the jaws of Death, 
Back from the mouth of Hell, 
All that was left of them, 

Left of six hundred. 

When can their glory fade ? 
O, the wild charge they made ! 

All the world wondered. 
Honor the charge they made ! 
Honor the Light Brigade, 

Noble six hundred ! 

— [Alfred Tennyson. 



52 SELECTIONS FOR READING. 



Burial of Sir John Moore. . 

Not a drum was heard, nor a funeral note, 

As his corse to the rampart we hurried ; 
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot 

O'er the grave where our hero we buried. 

We buried him darkly, at dead of night, 

The sods with our bayonets turning ; 
By the struggling moonbeams' misty light, 

And the lantern dimly burning. 

No useless coffin inclosed his breast, 

Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him ; 

But he lay, like a warrior taking his rest, 
With his martial cloak around him. 

Few and short were the prayers we said, 

And we spoke not a word of sorrow ; 
But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead, 

And we bitterly thought of the morrow. 

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed, 

And smoothed down his lonely pillow, 

That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, 

And we far away on the billow ! 

t 

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, 

And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him ; 
But little he'll reck if they let him sleep on, 

In the grave where a Briton has laid him ! 

But half of our heavy task was done, 

When the clock tolled the hour for retiring ; 

And we heard the distant and random gun 
That the foe was sullenly firing. 



THE FIRST EARL OF CHATHAM. 53 

Slowly and sadly we laid him down, 

From the field of his fame fresh and gory ! 

We carved not a line, we raised not a stone, 
But we left him alone in his glory. 

— [Charles Wolfe. 



The First Earl of Chatham. 

The Secretary stood alone ; modern degeneracy had not reached 
him. Original and ever accommodating, the features of his char- 
acter had the hardihood of antiquity ; his august mind overawed 
majesty ; and one of his sovereigns thought royalty so impaired 
in his presence, that he conspired to remove him, in order to be 
relieved from his superiority. No state chicanery, no narrow sys- 
tem of vicious politics, no idle contest for ministerial victories, 
sunk him to the vulgar level of the great ; but overbearing, per- 
suasive, and impracticable, his subject was England, his ambition 
was fame. Without dividing, he destroyed party; without cor- 
rupting, he made a venal age unanimous. France sunk beneath 
him. With one hand he smote the house of Bourbon, and wielded 
in the other the democracy of England. The sight of his mind 
was infinite ; and his schemes were to affect, — not England, not 
the present age only, — but Europe and posterity. Wonderful 
were the means by which these schemes were accomplished: 
always seasonable ; always adequate ; the suggestions of an un- 
derstanding animated by ardor and enlightened by prophecy. 

The ordinary feelings, which make life amiable and indolent, — 
those sensations which soften, and allure, and vulgarize, — were 
unknown to him. No domestic difficulties, no domestic weakness 
reached him ; but, aloof from the sordid occurrences of life, and 
unsullied by its intercourse, he came occasionally into our system 
to counsel and to decide. 

A character so exalted, so strenuous, so various, so authorita- 
tive, astonished a corrupt age, and the treasury trembled at the 
name of Pitt, through all her classes of venality. Corruption 



54 SELECTIONS FOR READING. 

imagined, indeed, she had found defects in this statesman, and 
talked much of the inconsistency of his glory, and much of the 
ruin of his victories ; but the history of his country, and the 
calamities of the enemy, answered and refuted her. 

Nor were his political abilities his only talents ; his eloquence 
was an era in the senate, peculiar and spontaneous ; familiarly 
expressing gigantic sentiments and instinctive wisdom, not like 
the torrent of Demosthenes, or the splendid conflagration of Tully, 
it resembled sometimes the thunder and sometimes the music, of 
the spheres. He did not conduct the understanding through the 
painful subtlety of argumentation ; nor was he forever on the 
rack of exertion ; but rather lightened upon the subject, and 
reached the point by the flashings of his mind ; which, like those 
of his eye, were felt, but could not be followed. 

Upon the whole, there was in this man, something that could 
create, subvert, or reform ; an understanding, a spirit, and an 
eloquence to summon mankind to society, or to break the bonds 
of slavery asunder, and to rule the wilderness of free minds with 
unbounded authority ; — something that could establish or over- 
whelm empire, and strike a blow in the world that should resound 
through its universe. — [Henry Grattan. 



LOCHINVAR. 

Qo young Lochinvar is come out of the West, 
Through all the wide Border his steed was the best ; 
And, save his good broadsword, he weapon had none, 
He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone. 
So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, 
There never was knight like the young Lochinvar. 

He stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for stone, 
He swam the Eske river where ford there was none ; 
But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate, 
The bride had consented, the gallant came late ; 



LOCHINVAR. 55 

For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war, 
Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar. 

So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall, 

Among bridesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all. 

Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword 

(For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word), 

" O, come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, 

Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar? " 

" I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied ; — 
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide, — 
And now I am come, with this lost love of mine, 
To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine, 
There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far, 
That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar. ' ' 

The bride kissed the goblet ; the knight took it up, 
He quaffed off the wine, and threw down the cup. 
She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh, 
With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye. 
He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar, — 
" Now tread we a measure ! " said young Lochinvar. 

So stately his form, and so lovely her face, 

That never a hall such a galliard did grace ; 

While her mother did fret, and her father did fume, 

And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume ; 

And the bridemaidens whispered, " 'Twere better, by far, 

To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar. ' ' 

One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, 

When they reached the hall-door, and the charger stood near ; 

So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung, 

So light to the saddle before her he sprung ; 

" She is won ! we are gone ! over bank, bush, and scaur , 

They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young Lochinvar. 



56 SELECTIONS FOR READING. 

There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the Netherby clan ; 

Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran ; 

There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee, 

But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see. 

So daring in love, and so dauntless in war, 

Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar? 

—[Walter Scott. 



HOHENLINDEN. 



On Linden when the sun was low, 
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow, 
And dark as winter was the flow 
Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 

But Linden saw another sight 
When the drum beat at dead of night, 
Commanding fires of death to light 
The darkness of her scenery. 

By torch and trumpet fast arrayed, 
Each horseman drew his battle-blade, 
Arid furious every charger neighed, 
To join the dreadful revelry. 

Then shook the hills with thunder riven, 
Then rushed the steeds to battle driven, 
And louder than the bolts of heaven 
Far flashed the red artillery. 

But redder yet those fires shall glow 
On Linden's hills of stained snow, 
And darker yet shall the torrent flow 
Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 



THE LAUNCH OF THE SHIP. 57 

"M morn, but scarce yon lurid sun 
Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, 
While furious Frank and fiery Hun 

Shout in their sulphurous canopy. 

The combat deepens. On, ye brave, 
Who rush to glory, or the grave ! 
Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave, 

And charge with all thy chivalry ! 

Few, few shall part where many meet ! 
The snow shall be their winding-sheet, 
And every turf beneath their feet 

Shall be a soldier's sepulchre. 

— [Thomas Campbell. 



The Launch op the Ship. 

All is finished ! and at length 

Has come the bridal day 

Of tieauty and of strength. 

To-day the vessel shall be launched ! 

With fleecy clouds the sky is blanched, 

And o'er the bay, 

Slowly, in his splendors dight, 

The great sun rises to behold the sight. 

The ocean old, 

Centuries old, 

Strong as youth, and as uncontrolled, 

Paces restless to and fro, 

Up and down the sands of gold. 

His beating heart is not at rest ; 

And far and wide, 

With ceaseless flow, 

His beard of snow 

Heaves with the heaving of his breast. 



58 SELECTIONS FOR HEADING. 

He waits impatient for his bride. 

There she stands, 

With her foot upon the sands, 

Decked with flags and streamers gay, 

In honor of her marriage-day, 

Her snow-white signals fluttering, bending, 

Round her like a veil descending, 

Ready to be 

The bride of the gray, old sea. 

Then the Master, 

With a gesture of command, 

Waved his hand ; 

And at the word, 

Loud and sudden there was heard, 

All around them and below, 

The sound of hammers, blow on blow, 

Knocking away the shores and spurs. 

And see ! she stirs ! 

She starts, — she moves, — she seems to ^ee A 

The thrill of life along her keel, 

And, spurning with her foot the ground, 

With one exulting, joyous bound, 

She leaps into the ocean's arms ! 

And lo ! from the assembled crowd 

There rose a shout, prolonged and loud, 

That to the ocean seemed to say, — 

' ' Take her, O bridegroom, old and gray, 

Take her to thy protecting arms, 

With all her youth and all her charms ! ' ' 

How beautiful she is ! How fair 

She lies within those arms, that press 

Her form with many a soft caress 

Of tenderness and watchful care ! 

Sail forth into the sea, O ship ! 

Through wind and wave, right onward steer ! 



ON THE WAR WITH AMERICA. 59 

The moistened eye, the trembling lip, 
Are not the signs of doubt or fear. 

Thou, too, sail on, O Ship of State ! 

Sail on, O Union, strong and great ! 

Humanity, with all its fears, 

With all the hopes of future years, 

Is hanging breathless on thy fate ! 

We know what Master laid thy keel, 

What Workmen wrought thy ribs of steel, 

Who made each mast, and sail, and rope, 

What anvils rang, what hammers beat, 

In what a forge and what a heat, 

Were shaped the anchors of thy hope ! 

Fear not each sudden sound and shock, 

*Tis of the wave and not the rock ; 

'Tis but the flapping of the sail, 

And not a rent made by the gale. 

In spite of rock and tempest's roar, 

In spite of false lights on the shore, 

Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea ! 

Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee, 

Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears, 

Our faith triumphant o'er our fears, 

Are all with thee, — are all with thee ! 

— [Henry W. Longfellow. 



On the War with America. 

I cannot, my lords, I will not, join in congratulation on mis- 
fortune and disgrace. This, my lords, is a perilous and tremendous 
moment. It is not a time for adulation. The smoothness of 
flattery cannot save us in this rugged and awful crisis. It is now 
necessary to instruct the throne in the language of truth. We 
must, if possible, dispel the illusion and the darkness which 



60 SELECTIONS FOR READING. 

envelop it, and display, in its full danger and genuine colors, the 
ruin which is brought to our doors. 

Can ministers still presume to expect support in their infatua- 
tion? Can Parliament be so dead to its dignity and duty, as to 
give their support to measures thus obtruded and forced upon 
them? Measures, my lords, which have reduced this late flourish- 
ing empire to ruin and contempt ! But yesterday, and England 
might have stood against the world ; now, none so poor as to do 
her reverence. 

The people whom we at first despised as rebels, but whom we 
now acknowledge as enemies, are abetted against us ; supplied 
with every military store, their interest consulted and their ambas- 
sadors entertained by our inveterate enemy ! — and ministers do 
not, and dare not, interpose with dignity or effect. The desper- 
ate state of our army abroad is in part known. No man more 
highly esteems and honors the English troops than I do ; I know 
their virtues and their valor ; I know they can achieve anything 
but impossibilities ; and I know that the conquest of English 
America is an impossibility. 

You cannot, my lords, you cannot conquer America. What is 
your present situation there ? We do not know the worst ; but 
we know that in three campaigns we have done nothing, and suf- 
fered much. You may swell every expense, accumulate every 
assistance, and extend your traffic to the shambles of every Ger- 
man despot ; your attempts will be forever vain and impotent — 
doubly so, indeed, from this mercenary aid on which you rely ; 
for it irritates, to an incurable resentment, the minds of your 
adversaries, to overrun them with the mercenary sons of rapine 
and plunder, devoting them and their possessions to the rapacity 
of hireling cruelty. If I were an American, as I am an English- 
man, while a foreign troop was landed in my country, I never 
would lay down my arms — never, never, never ! 

But, my lords, who is the man that, in addition to the dis- 
grace and mischiefs of the war, has dared to authorize and asso- 
ciate to our arms the tomahawk and scalping-knife of the savage ? 
— to call into civilized alliance the wild and inhuman inhabitants 



ON THE WAR WITH AMERICA. 61 

of the woods? — to delegate to the merciless Indian the defence 
of disputed rights, and to wage the horrors of his barbarous war 
against our brethren ? My lords, these enormities cry aloud for 
redress and punishment. 

But, my lords, this barbarous measure has been defended, 
not only on the principles of policy and necessity, but also on 
those of morality ; ' ' f Or it is perfectly allowable, ' ' says Lord 
Suffolk, " to use all the means which God and Nature have put 
into our hands." I am astonished, I am shocked, to hear such 
principles confessed; to hear them avowed in this House, or in 
this country! 

My lords, I did not intend to encroach so much upon your 
attention, but I cannot repress my indignation. I feel myself 
impelled to speak. My lords, we are called upon as members of 
this House, as men, as Christian men, to protest against such 
horrible barbarity. ' ' That God and Nature have put into our 
hands!". What ideas of God and Nature that noble lord may 
entertain, I know not ; but I know that such detestable principles 
are equally abhorrent to religion and humanity. 

What! to attribute the sacred sanction of God, and Nature 
to the massacres of the Indian scalping-knif e ! — to the cannibal 
savage, torturing, murdering, devouring, drinking the blood of 
his mangled victims ! Such notions shock every precept of moral- 
ity, every feeling of humanity, every sentiment of honor. These 
abominable principles, and this more abominable avowal of them, 
demand the most decisive indignation. I call upon that right 
reverend, and this most learned bench, to vindicate the religion of 
their God, to support the justice of their country. I call upon 
the bishops to interpose the unsullied sanctity of their Canon ; upon 
the judges, to interpose the purity of their ermine, to save us from 
this pollution. I call upon the honor of your lordships to rever- 
ence the dignity of your ancestors, and maintain your own. I 
call upon the spirit and humanity of my country to vindicate the . 
national character. I again implore them to purify this House, 
and this country, from this sin. — [William Pitt. 



62 SELECTIONS FOR READING. 



Lady Clare. 

It was the time when lilies blow, 

And clouds are highest up in air, 
Lord Ronald brought a lily-white doe 

To give to his cousin, Lady Clare. 

I trow they did not part in scorn : 

Lovers long betrothed were they : 
They two will wed the morrow morn ; 

God's blessing on the day! 

" He does not love me for my birth, 
Nor for my lands so broad and fair ; 

He loves me for my own true worth, 
And that is well," said Lady Clare. 

In there came old Alice the nurse, 

Said, "Who was this that went from thee?' 

" It was my cousin," said Lady Clare, 
"To-morrow he weds with me." 

" O, God be thanked!" said Alice the nurse, 
" That all comes round so just and fair : 

Lord Ronald is heir of all your lands, 
And you are not the Lady Clare." 

"Are ye out of your mind, my nurse, my nurse? 
Said Lady Clare, "that ye speak so wild?" 
As God's above," said Alice the nurse, 
' ' I speak the truth : you are my child. 



u 



"The old Earl's daughter died at my breast ; 

I speak the truth as I live by bread ! 
I buried her like my own sweet child, 

And put my child in her stead. ' ' 



LADY CLARE. 63 

"Falsely, falsely have ye done, 

O mother," she said, "if this be true, 
To keep the best man under the sun 

So many years from his due." 

"Nay, now, my child," said Alice the nurse, 

' ' But keep the secret for your life, 
And all you have will be Lord Ronald's, 

When you are man and wife." 

"If I'm a beggar born," she said, 

" I will speak out, for I dare not lie. 
Pull off, pull off the brooch of gold, 

And fling the diamond necklace by. ' ' 

"Nay, now, my child," said Alice the nurse, 

"But keep the secret all you can." 
She said, ' ' Not so : but I will know 

If there be any faith in man. ' ' 

"Nay, now, what faith? " said Alice the nurse, 

' ' The man will cleave unto his right. ' ' 
"And he shall have it," the lady replied, 

' ' Though I should die to-night. ' ' 

" Yet give one kiss to your mother dear ! 

Alas, my child, I sinned for thee." 
"O mother, mother, mother," she said, 

" So strange it seems to me. 

" Yet here's a kiss for my mother dear, 

My mother dear, if this be so ; 
And lay your hand upon my head, 

And bless me, mother, ere I go." 

She clad herself in a russet gown, 

She was no longer Lady Clare : 
She went by dale, and she went by down, 

With a sinofle rose in her hair. 



64 SELECTIONS FOR READING. 

The lily-white doe Lord Ronald had brought 

Leapt up from where she lay, 
Dropt her head iu the maiden's hand, 

And followed her all the way. 

Down stept Lord Ronald from his tower : 
" O Lady Clare, yon shame your worth! 

Why come you drest like a village maid, 
That are the flower of the earth?" 

' If I come drest like a village maid, 
I am but as my fortunes are : 
I am a beggar born," she said, 
"And not the Lady Clare." 

" Play me no tricks," said Lord Ronald, 
6 ' For I am yours in word and in deed. 

Play me no tricks," said Lord Ronald, 
"Your riddle is hard to read." 

O, and proudly stood she up ! 

Her heart within her did not fail : 
She looked into Lord Ronald's eyes, 

And told him all her nurse's tale. 

He laughed a laugh of merry scorn : 

He turned and kissed her where she stood : 

" If you are not the heiress born, 
And I, ' ' said he, ' ' the next in blood — 

' ' If you are not the heiress born, 
And I," said he, " the lawful heir, 

We two will wed to-morrow morn, 
And you shall still be Lady Clare." 

— [Alfred Tennyson. 



OBSERVATION. 6& 



Observation. 

A dervise was journeying alone in a desert, when two merchants 
suddenly met him. 

' ' You have lost a camel, ' ' said he to the merchants. 

" Indeed we have," they replied. 

"Was he not blind in his right eye, and lame in his left leg?" 
said the dervise. 

"He was," replied the merchants. 

"Had he not lost a front tooth? " said the dervise. 

"He had," rejoined the merchants. 

"And was he not loaded with honey on one side, and wheat on 
the other ? " 

" Most certainly he was," they replied, " and as you have seen 
him so lately, and marked him so particularly, you can, in all 
probability, conduct us unto him." 

"My friends," said the dervise, "I have never seen your 
camel, nor ever heard of him, but from you." 

"A pretty story, truly," said the merchants, "but where are 
the jewels which formed part of his cargo? " 

"I have neither seen your camel, nor your jewels," repeated 
the dervise. 

On this, they seized his person, and forthwith hurried him 
before the Cadi, where, on the strictest search, nothing could be 
found upon him, nor could any evidence whatever be adduced to 
convict him, either of falsehood or of theft. They were then 
about to proceed against him as a sorcerer, when the dervise, with 
great calmness, thus addressed the court : — 

"I have been much amused with your surprise, and own that 
there has been some ground for your suspicions ; but I have lived 
long, and alone ; and I can find ample scope for observation, even 
in a desert. I knew that I had crossed the track of a camel that 
had strayed from its owner, because I saw no mark of any human 
footstep on the same route ; I knew that the animal was blind in 
one eye, because it had cropped the herbage only on one side of 

5 



66 SELECTIONS FOR READING. 

its path ; and I perceived that it was lame in one leg, from the 
faint impression which that particular foot had produced upon the 
sand ; I concluded that the animal had lost one tooth, because 
wherever it had grazed, a small tuft of herbage had been left 
uninjured in the centre of its bite. As to that which formed the 
burden of the beast, the busy ants informed me that it was corn 
on one side, and the clustering flies that it was honey on the 
other. " — [ Caleb Qolton . 



The Inchcape Rock. 

No stir in the air, no stir in the sea, — 
The ship was still as she might be ; 
Her sails from heaven received no motion ; 
Her keel was steady in the ocean. 

Without either sign or sound of their shock, 
The waves flowed over the Inchcape rock ; 
So little they rose, so little they fell, 
They did not move the Inchcape bell. 

The holy abbot of Aberbrothok 
Had floated that bell on the Inchcape rock ; 
On the waves of the storm it floated and swung, 
And louder and louder its warning rung. 

When the rock was hid b}^ the surge's swell, 
The mariners heard the warning bell ; 
And then they knew the perilous rock, 
And blessed the abbot of Aberbrothok. 

The sun in Heaven shone so gay, — 

All things were joyful on that da}- ; 

The sea-birds screamed as they sported round, 

And there was pleasure in their sound. 



THE INCHCAPE ROCK. 67 

The float of the Inchcape bell was seen, 
A darker speck on the ocean green ; 
Sir Ralph, the rover, walked his deck, 
And he fixed his eye on the darker speck. 

He felt the cheering power of spring, — 
It made him whistle, it made him sing ; 
His heart was mirthful to excess ; 
But the rover's mirth was wickedness. 

His eye was on the bell and float : 
Quoth he, " My men, pull out the boat ; 
And row me to the Inchcape rock, 
And I'll plague the abbot of Aberbrothok." 

The boat is lowered, the boatmen row, 
And to the Inchcape rock they go ; 
Sir Ralph bent over from the boat, 
And he cut the warning bell from the float. 

Down sank the bell with a gurgling sound ; 
The bubbles rose and burst around. 
Quoth Sir Ralph, ' ' The next who comes to the rock 
Will not bless the priest of Aberbrothok." 

Sir Ralph, the rover, sailed away, — 
He scoured the seas for many a day ; 
And now, grown rich with plundered store, 
He steers his course to Scotland's shore. 

So thick a haze o'erspreads the sky 
They could not see the sun on high ; 
The wind hath blown a gale all day ; 
At evening, it hath died away. 

On the deck the rover takes Ms stand ; 
So dark it is they see no land. 
Quoth Sir Ralph, ' ' It will be lighter soon, 
For there is the dawn of the rising moon." 



68 SELECTIONS FOR READING. 

" Canst hear," said one, " the breaker's roar? 
For yonder, methinks, should be the shore. 
Now where we are I cannot tell, 
But I wish we could hear the Inchcape bell." 

They hear no sound ; the swell is strong ; 
Though the wind hath fallen, they drift along ; 
Till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock, — 
Oh God ! it is the Inchcape rock ! 

Sir Ralph, the rover, tore his hair ; 
He beat himself in wild despair. 
The waves rush in on every side ; 
The ship is sinking beneath the tide. 

But ever in his dying fear 
One dreadful sound he seemed to hear, — 
A sound as if with the Inchcape bell 
The evil spirit was ringing his knell. 

— [Robert Southey. 



True Eloquence. 



True eloquence, indeed, does not consist in speech. It cannot 
be brought from far. Labor and learning may toil for it, but 
they will toil in vain. Words and phrases may be marshaled in 
every way, but they cannot compass it. It must exist in the man, 
in the subject, and in the occasion. Affected passion, intense 
expression, the pomp of declamation, all may aspire after it, — 
they cannot reach it. It comes, if it come at all, like the out- 
breaking of a fountain from the earth, or the bursting forth of 
volcanic fires, with spontaneous, original, native force. 

The graces taught in the schools, the costly ornaments and 
studied contrivances of speech, shock and disgust men, when their 
own lives, and the fate of their wives, their children, and their 
country, hang on the decision of the hour. Then, words have 



HOME. 69 

lost their power, rhetoric is vain, and all elaborate oratory con- 
temptible. Even genius itself then feels rebuked and subdued, 
as in the presence of higher qualities. Then, patriotism is elo- 
quent; then, self-devotion is eloquent. The clear conception, 
outrunning the deductions of logic, the high purpose, the firm 
resolve, the dauntless spirit, speaking on the tongue, beaming 
from the eye, informing every feature, and urging the whole man 
onward, right onward, to his object, — this, this is eloquence ; or, 
rather, it is something greater and higher than all eloquence, — 
it is action, noble, sublime, Godlike action. — [Daniel Webster. 



Home. 

There is a land, of every land the pride, 
Beloved by Heaven o'er all the world beside ; 
Where brighter suns dispense serener light, 
And milder moons emparadise the night ; 
A land of beauty, virtue, valor, truth, 
Time-tutored age, and love-exalted youth : 
The wandering mariner, whose eye explores 
The wealthiest isles, the most enchanting shores, 
Views not a realm so bountiful and fair, 
Nor breathes the spirit of a purer air ; 
In every clime the magnet of his soul, 
Touched by remembrance, trembles to that pole ; 
For in this land of Heaven's peculiar grace, 
The heritage of nature's noblest race, 
There is a spot of earth supremely blest, 
A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest, 
Where man, creation's tyrant, casts aside 
His sword and scepter, pageantry and pride, 
While in his softened looks benignly blend 
The sire, the son, the husband, brother, friend ; 
Here woman reigns ; the mother, daughter, wife, 
Strew with fresh flowers the narrow wa} r of life ! 



70 SELECTIONS FOR READING. 

In the clear heaven of her delightful eye, 
An angel-guard of loves and graces lie ; 
Around her knees domestic duties meet, 
And fireside pleasures gambol at her feet. 
Where shall that land, that spot of earth be found ! 
Art thou a man ? — a patriot ? — look around ; 
O, thou shalt find, howe'er thy footsteps roam, 
That land thy country, and that spot thy Home. 

— [James Montgomery. 



A Patriot's Last Speech. 

My lords, it may be a part of the system of angry justice to 
bow a man's mind by humiliation to the proposed ignominy of 
the scaffold, — but worse to me than the proposed shame, or the 
scaffold's terrors, would be the shame of such foul and unfounded 
imputations as have been laid against me in this court. You, my 
lord, are a judge; I am the supposed culprit; I am a man, you 
are a man also ; by a revolution of power we might change places, 
though we never could change characters. If I stand at the bar of 
this court, and dare not vindicate my character, what a farce is your 
justice ! If I stand at this bar, and dare not vindicate my charac- 
ter, how dare you calumniate it? Does the sentence of death, 
which your unhallowed policy inflicts on my body, also condemn 
my tongue to silence and my reputation to reproach ? Your exe- 
cutioner may abridge the period of my existence, but whilst I 
exist, I shall not forbear to vindicate my character and motives 
from your aspersions ; and as a man to whom fame is dearer than 
life, I will make the last use of that life in doing justice to that 
reputation which is to live after me, and which is the only legacy 
I can leave to those I honor and love, and for whom I am proud 
to perish. — [Robert Emmet. 



MARMION AND DOUGLAS. 



Marmion and Douglas. 



« 



The train from out the castle drew, 
But Marmion stopped to bid adieu : — 

" Though something I might plain," he said, 
" Of cold respect to stranger guest, 
Sent hither by your King's behest, 

While in Tantallon's towers I stayed, 
Part we in friendship from your land, 
And, noble Earl, receive my hand." 
But Douglas round him drew his cloak, 
Folded his arms, and thus he spoke : — 
"My manors, halls, and bowers, shall still 
Be open at my Sovereign's will, 
To each one whom he lists, howe'er 
Unmeet to be the owner's peer. 
My castles are my King's alone, 
From turret to foundation stone — 
The hand of Douglas is his own ; 
And never shall in friendly grasp 
The hand of such as Marmion clasp." 
Burned Marmion' s swarthy cheek like fire, 
And shook his frame for very ire, 

And— "This tome!" he said, 
"An 't were not for thy hoary beard 
Such hand as Marmion' s had not spared 

To cleave the Douglas' head ! 
And, first, I tell thee, haughty Peer, 
He, who does England's message here, 
Although the meanest in her state, 
May well, proud Angus, be thy mate : 
And, Douglas, more I tell thee here, 

Even in thy pitch of pride, 
Here in thy hold, thy vassals near, 
(Nay, never look upon your lord, 
And lay your hand upon your sword,) 



72 SELECTIONS FOR READING. 

I tell thee thou 'rt defied ! 
And if thou saidst I am not peer 
To any lord in Scotland here, 
Lowland or Highland, far or near, 

Lord Angus, thou hast lied ! " 
On the Earl's cheek the flush of rage 
O'ercame the ashen hue of age : 
Fierce he broke forth, — "And dar'st thou then 
To beard the lion in his den, 

The Douglas in his hall? 
And hopest thou hence unscathed to go ? 
No, by St. Bride of Bothwell, no ! 
Up , drawbridge, grooms! — What, Warder, ho! 

Let the portcullis fall." — 
Lord Marmion turned, — well was his need, 
And dashed the rowels in his steed, 
Like arrow through the archway sprung, 
The ponderous grate behind him rung ; 
To pass there was such scanty room, 
The bars, descending, razed his plume. 
The steed along the drawbridge flies, 
Just as it trembled on the rise ; 
Nor lighter does the swallow skim 
Along the smooth lake's level brim : 
And when Lord Marmion reached his band, 
He halts and turns with clenched hand, 
And shout of loud defiance pours, 
And shook his gauntlet at the towers. 
' ' Horse ! horse ! ' ' the Douglas cried, 4 ' and chase !" 
But soon he reined his fury's pace : 
' 'A royal messenger he came, 
Though most unworthy of the name. 
****** 
With this his mandate he recalls, 
And slowly seeks his castle walls. 

—[Walter Scott. 



the love of life. 73 

The Love of Life. 

Age, that lessens the enjoyment of life, increases our desire of 
living. Those clangers which, in the vigor of youth, we had 
learned to despise, assume new terrors as we grow old. Our 
caution increasing as our years increase, fear becomes at last the 
prevailing passion of the mind, and the small remainder of life is 
taken up in useless efforts to keep off our end, or provide for a 
continued existence. 

Strange contradiction in our nature, and to which even the wise 
are liable ! If I should judge of that part of life which lies before 
me by that which I have already seen, the prospect is hideous. 
Experience tells me that my past enjoyments have brought no 
real felicity, and sensation assures me that those I have felt are 
stronger than those which are yet to come. Yet experience and 
sensation in vain persuade ; hope, more powerful than either, 
dresses out the distant prospect in fancied beauty ; some happi- 
ness in long perspective, still beckons me to pursue ; and, like a 
losing gamester, every new disappointment increases my ardor to 
continue the game. * * * 

Our attachment to every object around us increases in general 
from the length of our accfuaintance with it. "I would not 
choose," says a French philosopher, "to see an old post pulled 
up with which I had been long acquainted. ' ' A mind long habit- 
uated to a certain set of objects, insensibly becomes fond of 
seeing them ; visits them from habit, and parts from tliem with 
reluctance. From hence proceeds the avarice of the old in every 
kind of possession ; they love the world and all that it produces ; 
they love life and all its advantages, not because it gives them 
pleasure, but because they have known it long. 

Chinvang, the Chaste, ascending the throne of China, com- 
manded that all who were unjustly detained in prison during the 
preceding reigns, should be set free. Among the number who 
came to thank their deliverer on this occasion, there appeared a 
majestic old man, who, falling at the emperor's feet, addressed 
him as follows: "Great father of China, behold a wretch, now 
eighty-five years old, who was shut up in a dungeon at the age of 



74 SELECTIONS FOR READING. 

twenty-two. I was imprisoned, though a stranger to crime, or 
without being even confronted by my accusers. I have now lived 
in solitude and darkness for more than fifty years, and am grown 
familiar with distress. As yet, dazzled with the splendor of that 
sun to which you have restored me, I have been wandering the 
streets to find out some friend that would assist, or relieve, or 
remember me ; but my friends, my f amily, and my relations are all 
dead, and I am forgotten. Permit me then, O Chinvang, to wear 
out the wretched remains of life in my former prison ; the walls 
of my dungeon are to me more pleasing than the most splendid 
palace ; I have not long to five, and shall be unhappy except I 
spend the rest of my da}^s where my youth was passed — in that 
prison from whence you were pleased to release me." 

The old man's passion for confinement is similar to that we all 
have for life. We are habituated to the prison, we look 'round 
with discontent, are displeased with the abode, and yet the length 
of our captivity only increases our fondness for the cell. The 
trees we have planted, the houses we have built, or the posterity 
we have begotten, — all serve to bind us closer to earth, and 
imbitter our parting. Life sues the young like a new acquaint- 
ance ; the companion, as yet unexhausted, is at once instructive 
and amusing; its company pleases, yet for all this it is but 
little regarded. To us, who are declined in 3 T ears, life appears 
like an old friend ; its jests have been anticipated in former con- 
versation ; it has no new story to make us smile, no new improve- 
ment with which to surprise, yet still we love it ; destitute of 
every enjoyment, still we love it ; husband the wasting treasure 
with increasing frugality, and feel all the poignanc}^ of anguish 
in the fatal separation. — [Oliver Goldsmith. 



Ossian's Address to the Sun. 

O thou that rollest above, 
Round as the shield of my fathers ! 
Whence are thy beams, O sun ! 
Thy everlasting light ? 



THE PASSIONS. 75 

Thou comest forth in thine awful beauty ; 

The moon, cold and pale, sinks in the western wave ; 

But thou thyself movest alone. 

Who can be companion of thy course ? 

The oaks of the mountains fall ; 

The mountains themselves decay with years ; 

The ocean shrinks and grows again ; 

The moon herself is lost in heaven, 

But thou art forever the same, 

Rejoicing in the brightness of thy course. 

When the world is dark with tempests, 

When thunder rolls and lightning flies, 

Thou lookest forth in thy beauty from the clouds, 

And laughest at the storm. 

But to Ossian thou lookest in vain, 

For he beholds thy beams no more ; 

Whether thy yellow hair floats on the eastern clouds, 

Or tremblest at the gates of the west. 

But thou art perhaps like me for a season ; 

Thy years will have an end. 

Thou shalt sleep in thy clouds, 

Careless of the voice of the morning. 

Exult then, O sun, in the strength of thy youth. 

— \_James Macpherson. 



The Passions. 

When Music, Heavenly maid, was young, 
While yet in early Greece she sung, 
The Passions oft, to hear her shell, 
Thronged around her magic cell, 
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting, 
Possessed beyond the Muse's painting: 
By turns they felt the glowing mind 
Disturbed, delighted, raised, refined: 



76 SELECTIONS FOR READING. 

Till once, 't is said, when all were fired, 
Filled with fury, rapt, inspired, 
From the supporting myrtles round 
They snatched her instruments of sound ; 
And, as they oft had heard apart 
Sweet lessons of her forceful art, 
Each (for madness ruled the hour) 
Would prove his own expressive power. 

First, Fear his hand, its skill to try, 

Amid the chords bewildered laid, 
And back recoiled, he knew not why, 

Even at the sound himself had made. 

Next, Anger rushed ; his eyes on fire, 
In lightnings owned his secret stings : 

In one rude clash he struck the lyre, 

And swept with hurried hand the strings. 

With wof ul measures wan Despair — 

Low, sullen sounds his grief beguiled, — 

A solemn, strange, and mingled air ; 

'T was sad, by fits, by starts, 't was wild. 

But thou, O Hope ! with eyes so fair, 

What was thy delighted measure ? 
Still it whispered promised pleasure, 

And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail ! 
Still would her touch the strain prolong ; 

And from the rocks, the woods, the vale, 
She called on Echo, still through all the song ; 

And where her sweetest theme she chose, 

A soft responsive voice was heard at every close ; 
And Hope, enchanted, smiled, and waved her golden hair. 

And longer had she sung : — but, with a frown, 
Revenge impatient rose. 



THE PASSIONS. 



77 



He threw his blood-stained sword, in thunder, down ; 

And, with a withering look, 
The war-denouncing trumpet took, 
And blew a blast, so loud and dread, 
Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe ! 

And ever and anon he beat 

The doubling drum with furious heat ; 
And though sometimes, each dreary pause between, 

Dejected Pity, at his side, 

Her soul-subduing voice applied, 
Yet still he kept his wild unaltered mien ; 
While each strained ball of sight seemed bursting from his head. 

Thy numbers, Jealousy, to naught were fixed, — 

Sad proof of thy distressful state ; 
Of differing themes the veering song was mixed ; 

And now, it courted Love, now, raving, called on Hate. 

With eyes upraised, as one inspired, 
Pale Melancholy sat retired ; 
And, from her wild sequestered seat, 
In notes by distance made more sweet, 

Poured through the mellow horn her pensive soul : 
And, dashing soft, from rocks around, 
Bubbling runnels joined the sound ; 
Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole ; 
Or o'er some haunted stream, with fond delay, 
Round an holy calm diffusing, 
Love of peace and lonely musing, 
In hollow murmers died away. 

But O ! how altered was its sprightlier tone, 
When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue, 

Her bow across her shoulder flung, 

Her buskins gemmed with morning dew, 
Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung, — 

The hunter's call, to Faun and Dryad known ! 



78 SELECTIONS FOR READING. 

The oak-crowned Sisters, and their chaste-eyed Queen, 
Satyrs, and Sylvan Boys, were seen 
Peeping from forth their alleys green : 

Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear ; 

And Sport leaped up, and seized his beechen spear. 

Last came Joy's ecstatic trial: 
He, with viny crown advancing, 

First to the lively pipe his hand addrest ; 
But soon he saw the brisk, awakening viol, 

Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best : 
They would have thought, who heard the strain, 

They saw, in Tempe's vale, her native maids, 

Amidst the festal-sounding shades, 
To some unwearied minstrel dancing, 
While, as his flying fingers kissed the strings, 
Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round: 
Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound ; 

And he, amidst his frolic play, 

As if he would the charming air repay, 
Shook thousand odors from his dewy wings. 

— [William Collins. 



Academical Education. l 

Go on, then, my friends, in j^oar praiseworthy undertaking. 
The cause in which you are engaged is that of civilization, of 
virtue, of truth, and of religion. The influences you seek to 
strengthen and extend are those, which in three centuries have 
brought our beloved America from the infancy of barbarism to 
her honorable position in the family of nations. The studies for 
which you make provision are not only the skillful purveyors of 

1 An address delivered at St. Louis, 226. of April, 1857, at the inaugu- 
ration of Washington University of the State of Missouri. (The closing 
paragraph of the address has been selected.) 



ACADEMICAL EDUCATION. 79 

the common wants of our nature, but the ministers to its purest 
delights. The faculties you endeavor to discipline and to culti- 
vate are those which raise intellectual man above the savage and 
the brute. 

Complete then your already liberal endowments. Fill your 
departments with able and faithful instructors. Establish on a 
permanent basis a liberal seminary of education ; a great school 
of literature, science, and the arts. Collect an ample library — 
that great, silent, but all-eloquent teacher of every branch of 
knowledge. Found an observatory upon the meridian of St. 
Louis, the ninetieth west from Greenwich, and thereby admir- 
ably adapted for the comparison of observations. Let solid 
learning, and sound principle, and pure morals, go forth to the 
rising "West, from this, one of the chief foci of her natural com- 
munications and expanding commerce. 

Your honored fellow- citizen has just compared it to the spider's 
web, which gathers to its center whatever ventures within its cir- 
cuit ; let it be also a genial sun, sending forth its beams of light 
and truth to the farthest bounds of this imperial valley. Be 
faithful to the great heritage of freedom, prosperity, and power 
which you have received from your fathers. Enter into a gener- 
ous emulation with your older sister States, and thus keep alive 
the kindly sympathies which bind the cultivated mind of the coun- 
try together. 

In your day of small things, remember the infancy of those 
"twins of learning" in the East; the frugal legacy that gave 
being to Harvard, the few precious volumes that founded Yale ; 
not doubting that the time will come, if your enlightened views 
shall be shared by your successors, that the seminary you are now 
founding will take rank equal with those venerable patriarchs of 
our literary republic. 

The dust of your fathers, with few exceptions, lies side by side 
with the dust of our fathers in the honored soil of the East. On 
that soil — may the love of Heaven forever fall in gentle dews 
upon it — many of 3 r ourselves first drew the breath of life. Let 
those tender associations give strength to the sacred bond of 



80 SELECTIONS FOR READING. 

brotherhood which unites us, and before the dark day shall arrive 
that witnesses its rupture, may these eyes be closed beneath the 
sod. 

Above all, my friends, lay the corner-stone of your institution 
on the Rock of Ages, and may the blessing of Heaven rest upon it. 
— [Edward Everett. 



America. 



O mother of a mighty race, 
Yet lovely in thy youthful grace ! 
The elder dames, thy haughty peers, 
Admire and hate thy blooming years ; 

With words of shame 
And taunts of scorn they join thy name. 

For on thy cheeks the glow is spread 
That tints thy morning hills with red ; 
Thy step, — the wild deer's rustling feet 
Within thy woods are not more fleet ; 

Thy hopeful eye 
Is bright as thine own sunny sky. 

Ay, let them rail, those haughty ones, 
While safe thou dwellest with thy sons. 
They do not Know how loved thou art, 
How many a fond and fearless heart 

Would rise to throw 
Its life between thee and the foe. 

They know not, in their hate and pride, 
What virtues with thy children bide, — 
How true, how good, thy graceful maids 
Make bright, like flowers, the valley shades ; 

What generous men 
Spring, like thine oaks, by hill and glen ; 



PORTIA'S DESCRIPTION OF MERCY. 81 

What cordial welcomes greet the guest 
By thy lone rivers of the west ; 
How faith is kept, and truth revered, 
And man is loved, and God is feared, 

In woodland homes, 
And where the ocean border foams. 

There's freedom at thy gates, and rest 
For earth's down- trodden and opprest, 
A shelter for the hunted head, 
For the starved laborer toil and bread. 

Power, at thy bounds, 
Stops, and calls back his baffled hounds. 

O fair young mother ! on thy brow 
Shall sit a nobler grace than now. 
Deep in the brightness of thy skies, 
The throning years in glory rise, 

And, as they fleet, 
Drop strength and riches at thy feet. 

Thine eye, with every coming hour, 
Shall brighten, and thy form shall tower ; 
And when thy sisters, elder born, 
Would brand thy name with words of scorn, 

■ Before thine eye 
Upon their lips the taunt shall die. 

— [William Cullen Bryant. 



Portia's Description of Mercy. 

The quality of mercy is not strained ; 
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven 
Upon the place beneath : it is twice blessed ; 
It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes : 
'Tis mightiest in the mightiest : it becomes 
6 



82 SELECTIONS FOR READING. 

The throned monarch better than his crown ; 

His scepter shows the force of temporal power, 

The attribute to awe and majesty, 

Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings ; 

But mercy is above this sceptered sway ; 

It is enthroned in the heart of kings, 

It is an attribute to God himself ; 

And earthly power doth then show likest God's 

When mercy seasons justice. 

— [William Shakspere 



Labor and Genius. 



The prevailing idea with young people has been, the incompati- 
bility of labor and genius ; and, therefore, from the fear of being 
thought dull, they have thought it necessary to remain ignorant. 
I have seen, at school and at college, a great many young men 
completely destroyed by having been so unfortunate as to produce 
an excellent copy of verses. Their genius being now established, 
all that remained for them to do was, to act up to the dignity of 
the character ; and as this dignity consisted in reading nothing 
new, in forgetting what they had already read, and in pretending 
to be acquainted with all subjects, by a sort of off-hand exertion 
of talents, they soon collapsed into the most frivolous and insig- 
nificant of men. 

The greatest natural genius can not subsist on its own stock : 
he who resolves never to ransack any mind but his own, will be 
soon reduced from mere barrenness to the poorest of all imita- 
tions ; he will be obliged to imitate himself, and to repeat what he 
has before repeated. 

It would be an extremely profitable thing to draw up a short 
and well-authenticated account of the habits of study of the most 
celebrated writers with whose style of literary industry we happen 
to be most acquainted. It would go very far to destroy the 
absurd and pernicious association of genius and idleness, by show- 



LABOR AND GENIUS. 83 

ing that the greatest poets, orators, statesmen, and historians — 
men of the most brilliant and imposing talents — have actually 
labored as hard as the makers of dictionaries and the arrangers 
of indexes ; and that the most obvious reason why they have been 
superior to other men is, that they have taken more pains than 
other men. 

Gibbon was in his study every morning, winter and summer, at 
six o'clock; Mr. Burke was the most laborious and indefatigable 
of human beings ; Leibnitz was never out of his library ; Pascal 
killed himself by study; Cicero narrowly escaped death by the 
same cause ; Milton was at his books with as much regularity as 
a merchant or an attorney — he had mastered all the knowledge 
of his time ; so had Homer. Raff aelle lived but thirty-seven years ; 
and in that short space carried the art so far beyond what it had 
before reached, that he appears to stand alone as a model to his 
successors. 

There are instances to the contrary ; but, generally speaking, 
the life of all truly great men has been a life of intense and inces- 
sant labor. They have commonly passed the first half of life 
in the gross darkness of indigent humility — overlooked, mis- 
taken, contemned, by weaker men — thinking while others slept, 
reading while others rioted, feeling something within them that 
told them they should not always be kept down among the dregs 
of the world; and then, when their time was come, and some 
little accident has given them their first occasion, they have burst 
out into the light and glory of public life, rich with the spoils 
of time, and mighty in all the labors and struggles of the mind. 
Then do the multitude cry out "a miracle of genius!" Yes, 
he is a miracle of genius, because he is a miracle of labor ; be- 
cause, instead of trusting to the resources of his own single mind, 
he has ransacked a thousand minds ; because he makes use of the 
accumulated wisdom of ages, and takes as his point of departure, 
the very last fine and boundary to which science has advanced ; 
because it has ever been the object of his life to assist every intel- 
lectual gift of nature, however munificent, and however splendid, 
with every resource that art could suggest, and eve^ attention 
diligence could bestow. — [Sidney Smith. 



84 SELECTIONS FOR READING. 



The Pied Piper of Hamelin. 

Hamelin Town's in Brunswick, 

By famous Hanover city ; 
The river Weser, deep and wide, 
Washes its wall on the southern side ; 
A pleasanter spot you never spied ; 

But, when begins my ditty, 
Almost five hundred years ago, 
To see the townsfolk suffer so 

From vermin, was a pity. 

Rats! 
They fought the dogs, and killed the cats, 

And bit the babies in the cradles, 
And ate the cheeses out, of the vats, 

And licked the soup from the cook's own ladles, 
Split open the kegs of salted sprats, 
Made nests inside men's Sunday hats, 
And even spoiled the women's chats, 

By drowning their speaking 

With shrieking and squeaking 
In fifty different sharps and flats. 

At last the people in a body 

To the Town Hall came flocking : 
" 'Tis clear," cried they, " our Mayor's a noddy; 

And as for our Corporation — shocking 
To think we buy gowns lined with ermine 
For dolts that can't or won't determine 
What's best to rid us of our vermin ! 
You hope because you're old and obese, 
To find in the furry civic robe ease ? 
Rouse up, sirs ! Give your brains a racking 
To find a remedy we're lacking, 
Or, sure as fate, we'll send you packing! " 



THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN. 85 

At this, the Mayor and Corporation 
Quaked with a mighty consternation. 

An hour they sat in counsel — 

At length the Mayor broke silence : 
" For a guilder I'd my ermine gown sell ; 

I wish I were a mile hence ! 
It's easy to bid one rack one's brain — 
I'm sure my poor head aches again, 
I've scratched it so, and all in vain. 
Oh for a trap, a trap, a trap !" 
Just as he said this, what should hap 
At the chamber door, but a gentle tap ! 
" Bless us," cried the Mayor, "what's that? 
Anything like the sound of a rat 
Makes my heart go pit a pat ! ' ' 
"Come in ! " — the Mayor cried, looking bigger ; 
And in did come the strangest figure ; 
His queer long coat from heel to head 
Was half of yellow and half of red ; 
And he himself was tall and thin, 
With sharp blue eyes, each like a pin, 
And light, loose hair, yet swarthy skin, 
No tuft on cheek nor beard on chin, 
But lips where smiles went out and in, — 
There was no guessing his kith or kin ! 
And nobody could enough admire 
The tall man and his quaint attire. 
Quoth one : " It's as my great-grand-sire, 
Starting up at the trump of doom's tone, 
Had walked this way from his painted tomb stone !" 
He advanced to the council-table : 
And, "Please your honors," said he, "I'm able, 
By means of a secret charm to draw 
All creatures living beneath the sun, 
That creep, or swim, or fly, or run, 



SELECTIONS FOR READING. 

After me so as you never saw ! 

And I chiefly use my charm 

On creatures that do people harm, — 

The mole, and toad, and newt, and viper, — 

And people call me the Pied Piper," 

(And here they noticed round his neck 

A scarf of red and yellow stripe, 

To match with his coat of the self -same check ; 

And at the scarf's end hung a pipe ; 

And his fingers they noticed were ever straying 

As if impatient to be playing 

Upon this pipe, as low it dangled 

Over his vesture so old-fangled. ) 

"Yet," said he, " poor piper as I am, 

In Tartary I freed the Cham 

Last June from his huge swarms of gnats ; 

I eased in Asia the Nizam 

Of a monstrous brood of vampyre-bats ; 

And, as for what your brain bewilders, 

If I can rid your town of rats 

Will you give me a thousand guilders ? 

" One? fifty thousand! " — was the exclamation 

Of the astonished Mayor and Corporation. 

Into the street the piper stept, 

Smiling first a little smile, 
As if he knew what magic slept 

In his quiet pipe the while ; 
Then, like a musical adept, 
To blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled, 
And green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled, 
Like a candle flame where salt is sprinkled, ' 
And ere three shrill notes the pipe uttered, 
You heard as if an army muttered ; 
And the muttering grew to a grumbling ; 
And the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling ; 



THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN. 

And out of the houses the rats came tumbling. 

Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats, 

Brown rats, black rats, gray rats, tawny rats, 

Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins, 

Families by tens and dozens, 

Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives, — 

Followed the piper for their lives. 

From street to street he piped advancing, 

And step for step they followed dancing, 

Until they came to the river Weser, 

Wherein all plunged and perished, 

Save one who, stout as Julius Caesar, 

Swam across and lived to carry 

(As he the manuscript he cherished) 

To Rat-land home his commentary. 

You should have heard. the Hamelin people 

Ringing the bells till they rocked the steeple ; 

" Go," cried the Mayor, " and get long poles ! 

Poke out the nests and block up the holes ! 

Consult with carpenters and builders 

And leave in our town not even a trace 

Of the rats ! " — when suddenly up the face 

Of the piper perked in the market-place, 

With a "First, if you please, my thousand guilders ! 

A thousand guilders ! The Mayor looked blue ; 

So did the Corporation too. 

To pay this sum to a wandering fellow 

With a gypsy coat of red and yellow ! 

" Beside," quoth the Mayor, with a knowing wink, 

" Our business was done at the river's brink, 

We saw with our eyes the vermin sink, 

And what's dead can't come to life, I think. 

But as for the guilders, what we spoke 

Of them, as you very well know, was in joke. 

Beside, our losses have made us thrifty ; 



87 



88 SELECTIONS FOR READING. 

A thousand guilders ! Come, take fifty ! " 
The piper's face fell, and he cried, 
" No trifling ! I can't wait ! beside, 
And folks who put me in a passion 
May find me pipe to another fashion." 

" How? " cried the Mayor, " d'ye think I'll brook 

Being worse treated than a cook ? 

You threaten us, fellow? Do your worst, 

Blow your pipe there till you burst! " 

Once more he stept into the street ; 

And to his lips again 

Laid his long pipe of smooth, straight cane ; 

And ere he blew three notes (such sweet 

Soft notes as yet musician's cunning 

Never gave the enraptured air) 

There was a rustling that seemed like a bustling 

Of merry crowds justling at pitching and hustling; 

Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering, 

Little hands clapping, and little tongues chattering ; 

And, like fowls in a farm-yard when barley is scattering, 

Out came the children running : 

All the little boys and girls, 

With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls, 

And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls, 

Tripping and skipping, ran merrily after 

The wonderful music with shouting and laughter. 

When, lo, as they reached the mountain side, 

A wondrous portal opened wide, 

As if a cavern were suddenly hollowed ; 

And the piper advanced and the children followed ; 

And when all were in, to the very last, 

The door in the mountain side shut fast. 

The Mayor sent East, West, North, and South, 
To offer the piper by word of mouth, 



BREAKFAST AT DOTHEBOYS HALL. 89 

Wherever it was men's lot to find him, 
Silver and gold to his heart's content, 
If he'd only return the way he went, 

And bring the children behind him. 

They wrote the story on a column, 
And the great church window painted 
The same to make the world acquainted 
How their children were stolen away ; 
And there it stands to this very day. 
And I must not omit to say 
That in Transylvania there's a tribe 
Of alien people that ascribe 
The outlandish ways and dress 
On which their neighbors lay such stress 
To their fathers and mothers having risen 
Out of some subterranean prison — 
Out of Hamelin Town in Brunswick land, 
But how or why, they don't understand. 

— [Robert Browning. 



Breakfast at Dotheboys Hall. 

Mr. Squeers had before him a small measure of coffee, a plate 
of hot toast, and a cold round of beef ; but he was at that mo- 
ment intent on preparing breakfast for the little boys. 

" This is twopenn'orth of milk, is it, waiter? " said Mr. Squeers, 
looking down into a large blue mug, and slanting it gently, so as 
to get an accurate view of the quantity of fluid contained in it. 

"That's twopenn'orth, sir," replied the waiter. 

"What a rare article milk is, to be sure, in London," said Mr. 
Squeers with a sigh. ' ' Just fill that mug up with lukewarm water, 
William, will you? " 

" To the wery top, sir? " inquired the waiter. "Why, the milk 
will be drownded." 



90 SELECTIONS FOR READING. 

"Never you mind that," replied Mr. Squeers. " Serve it right 
for being so dear. You ordered that thick bread and butter for 
three, did you? " 

" Coming directly, sir." 

"You needn't hurry yourself," said Squeers ; " there's plenty 
of time. Conquer your passions, boys, and don't be eager after 
vittles." As he uttered this moral precept, Mr. Squeers took a 
large bite out of the cold beef, and recognized Nicholas. 

"Sit down, Mi*. Nickleby," said Squeers. "Here we are, a 
breakfasting you see ! ' ' 

Nicholas did not see that anybody was breakfasting, except Mr. 
Squeers ; but he bowed with all becoming reverence, and looked 
as cheerful as he could. 

"Oh! that's the milk and water, is it, William? " said Squeers. 
"Very good ; don't forget the bread and butter presently." 

" At this fresh mention of the bread and butter, the five little 
boys looked very eager, and followed the waiter out with their 
eyes ; meanwhile Mr. Squeers tasted the milk and water. 

"Ah! " said that gentleman, smacking his lips, "here's rich- 
ness ! Think of the many beggars and orphans in the streets that 
would be glad of this, little boys. A shocking thing hunger is, 
isn't it, Mr. Nickleby ? " 

"Very shocking, sir," said Nicholas. 

"When I say number one," pursued Mr. Squeers, putting the 
mug before the children, "the boy on the left hand nearest the 
window may take a drink ; and when I say number two, the boy 
next him will go in, and so till we come to number five, which is 
the last boy. Are you ready ? ' ' 

"Yes, sir," cried all the little boys with great eagerness. 

" That's right," said Squeers, calmly getting on with his break- 
fast ; " keep ready till I tell you to begin. Subdue your appetites, 
my dears, and you.'ve conquered human natur. This is the way 
we inculcate strength of mind, Mr. Nickleby," said the school- 
master, turning to Nicholas, and speaking with his mouth very full 
of beef and toast. 

Nicholas murmured something — he knew not what — in reply ; 



THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. 91 

and the little boys remained with strained eyes in torments of 
expectation. 

" Thank God for a good breakfast," said Squeers, when he had 
finished. ' ' Number one may take a drink. ' ' 

Number one seized the mug ravenously, and had just drunk 
enough to make him wish for more, when Mr. Squeers gave the 
signal for number two, who gave up at the same interesting 
moment to number three ; and the process was repeated till the 
milk and water terminated with number five. 

"And now," said the schoolmaster, dividing the bread and 
butter for three into as many portions as there were children, 
" you had better look sharp with your breakfast, for the horn will 
blow in a minute or two, and then every boy leaves off." 

Permission being thus given to fall to, the boys began to eat 
voraciously, and in desperate haste ; while the schoolmaster (who 
was in high good humor after his meal) picked his teeth with a 
fork, and looked smilingly on. — [Charles Dickens. 



The Death of the Flowers. 

The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, 
Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sere. 
Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the autumn leaves lie dead ; 
They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread. 
The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the jay, 
And from the wood-top calls the crow through all the gloomy day. 

Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang 

and stood 
In brighter light and softer air, a beauteous sisterhood ? 
Alas ! they all are in their graves ; the gentle race of flowers 
Are lying in their lowly beds with the fair and good of ours. 
The rain is falling where they lie ; but the cold November rain , 
Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again. 



92 SELECTIONS FOR READING. 

The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago, 

And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow ; 

But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood, 

And the yellow sunflower by the brook in autumn beauty stood, 

Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the plague 

on men, 
And the brightness of their smile was gone from upland, glade, 

and glen. 

And now, when comes the calm mild day, as still such days will 

come, 
To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home ; 
When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees 

are still, 
And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill, 
The south-wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he 

bore, 
And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more. 

And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died, 

The fair meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side. 

In the cold moist earth we laid her, when the forests cast the leaf, 

And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief ; 

Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that young friend of ours, 

So gentle and so beautiful should perish with the flowers. 

— [Willia7ii Cullen Bryant. 



On the Crime of Being Young. 

Sir: The atrocious crime of being a young man, which the 
honorable gentleman has with such spirit and decency charged 
upon me, I shall neither attempt to palliate nor deny, but content 
myself with wishing that I may be one of those whose follies may 
cease with their youth, and not of that number who are ignorant 



CHRISTIAN MARINER'S HYMN. 93 

in spite of experience. Whether youth can be imputed to any 
man as a reproach, I will not, sir, assume the province of deter- 
mining ; but surely age may become justly contemptible, if the 
opportunities which it brings have passed away without improve- 
ment, and vice appears to prevail when the passions have subsided. 
The wretch who, after having seen the consequences of a thousand 
errors, continues still to blunder, and whose age has only added 
obstinacy to stupidity, is surely the object either of abhorence or 
contempt, and deserves not that his gray hairs should secure him 
from insult. But youth, sir, is not my only crime ; I have been 
accused of acting a theatrical part. A theatrical part may either 
imply some peculiarities of gesture, or a dissimulation of my real 
sentiments, and an adoption of the opinions and language of 
another man. 

In the first sense, sir, the charge is too trifling to be confuted, 
and deserves only to be mentioned that it may be despised. But 
if any man shall, by charging me with theatrical behavior, imply 
that I utter any sentiments but my own, I shall treat him as a 
calumniator and a villain; nor shall any protection shelter him 
from the treatment he deserves. I shall, on such an occasion, 
without scruple, trample upon all those forms with which wealth 
and dignity intrench themselves ; nor shall anything but age 
restrain my resentment ; age, which always brings one privilege, 
that of being insolent and supercilious without punishment. But 
with regard, sir, to those whom I have offended, I am of opinion 
that if I had acted a borrowed part, I should have avoided their 
censure ; the heat that offended them is the ardor of conviction, 
and that zeal for the service of my country which neither hope 
nor fear shall influence me to suppress. — \_William Pitt. 



Christian Mariner's Hymn. 

Launch thy bark, Mariner ; 

Christian, God speed thee ! 
Let loose the rudder-bands ; 



94: SELECTIONS FOR READING. 

Good angels lead thee ! 
Set thy sails warily, 

Tempest will come ; 
Steer thy course steadily ; 

Christian, steer home ! 

Look to the weather-bow ! 

Breakers are round thee ! 
Let fall the plummet now, 

Shallows may ground thee. 
Reef in the foresail there ! 

Hold the helm fast ! 
So, — let the vessel wear ; 

There swept the blast. 

" What of the night, watchman, 

What of the night?" 
" Cloudy, — all quiet ; 

No land yet, — all's right.' 
Be wakeful, be vigilant, 

Danger may be 
At an hour when all seemeth 

Securest to thee. 

How gains the leak so fast? 

Clean out the hold ; 
Hoist up thy merchandise, 

Heave out thy gold ; 
There ! let the ingots go ! 

Now the ship rights ; 
Hurrah! the harbor's near, — 

Lo ! the red lights ! 

Slacken not sail yet, 
At inlet or island ; 

Straight for the beacon steer, 
Straight for the high-land ; 



ADAMS AND JEFFERSON. 95 

Crowd all thy canvas on ; 

Cut through the foam, — 
Christian ! cast anchor, now ; 

Heaven is thy home ! 

— [Caroline A. Southey. 



Adams and Jefferson 

Adams and Jefferson are no more ; and we are assembled, 
fellow citizens, the aged, the middle-aged, and the young, by the 
spontaneous impulse of all, to bear our part in those manifesta- 
tions of respect and gratitude which pervade the whole land. 

Adams and Jefferson are no more. On our fiftieth anniversary, 
the great day of national jubilee, in the very hour of public re- 
joicing, they took their flight together to the world of spirits. If 
it be true tyiat no one can safely be pronounced happy while he 
lives, if that event which terminates life can alone crown its 
honors and its glory, what felicity is here ! The great epic of 
their lives, now happily concluded ! Poetry itself has hardly ter- 
minated illustrious lives, and finished the career of earthly renown 
by such a consummation. * * * 

Adams and Jefferson, I have said, are no more. As human 
beings, indeed, they are no more. They are no more, as in 1776, 
bold and fearless advocates of independence ; no more, as at sub- 
sequent periods, the head of the government ; no more, as we 
have recently seen them, aged and venerable objects of admira- 
tion and regard. They are no more. They are dead. But how 
little is there of the great and good which can die! To their 
country they yet live, and live forever. They live in all that per- 
petuates the remembrance of men on earth ; in the recorded 
proofs of their own great actions, in the offspring of their intel- 
lect, in the deep engraved hues of public gratitude, and in the 
respect and homage of mankind. They live in their example ; 



96 SELECTIONS FOR READING. 

and they live, emphatically, and will live, in the influence which 
their lives and efforts, their principles and opinions, now exercise, 
and will continue to exercise, on the affairs of men, not only in 
their own country, but throughout the civilized world. 

A superior and commanding human intellect, a truly great 
man, when Heaven vouchsafes so rare a gift, is not a temporary 
flame, burning bright for a while, and then expiring, giving place 
to returning darkness. It is rather a spark of fervent heat, as well 
as radiant light, with power to enkindle the common mass of 
human mind ; so that, when it glimmers, in its own decay, and 
finally goes out in death, no light follows ; but it leaves the world 
all light, all on fire, from the potent contact of its own spirit. 

Bacon died ; but the human understanding, roused by the touch 
of his miraculous wand, to a perception of the true philosophy 
and the just mode of inquiring after truth, has kept on its course 
successfully and gloriously. Newton died ; yet the courses of 
the spheres are still known, and they yet move on, in the orbits 
which he saw and described for them, in the infinity of space. 

No two men now live — perhaps it may be doubted whether any 
two men have ever lived in one age — who, more than those we 
now commemorate, have impressed their own sentiments, in regard 
to politics and government, on mankind, infused their own opin- 
ions more deeply into the opinions of others, or given a more 
lasting direction to the current of human thought. Their work 
doth not perish with them. The tree which they assisted to plant 
will flourish, although they water it and protect it no longer ; for 
it has struck its roots deep ; it has sent them to the very center ; 
no storm, not of force to burst the orb, can overturn it ; its 
branches spread wide ; they stretch their protecting arms broader 
and broader, and its top is destined to reach the heavens. 

"We are not deceived. There is no delusion here. No age will 
come in which the American revolution will appear less than it is, 
one of the greatest events in human history. No age will come 
in which it will cease to be seen and felt, on either continent, that 
a mighty step, a great advance, not only in American affairs, but 



THE BELEAGUERED CITY. 97 

in human affairs, was made on the 4th of July, 1776. And no 
age will come, we trust, so ignorant, or so unjust, as not to see 
and acknowledge the efficient agency of these we now honor in 
producing that momentous event. — [Daniel Webster* 



The Beleaguered City. 

I have read, in some old marvellous tale, 
Some legend strange and vague, 

That a midnight host of spectres pale 
Beleaguered the walls of Prague. 

Beside the Moldau's rushing stream, 
With the wan moon overhead, 

There stood, as in an awful dream, 
The army of the dead. 

White as a sea-fog, landward bound, 
The spectral camp was seen, 

And, with a sorrowful, deep sound, 
The river flowed between. 

No other voice nor sound was there, 
No drum, nor sentry's pace ; 

The mistlike banners clasped the air, 
As clouds with clouds embrace. 

But, when the old cathedral bell 
Proclaimed the morning prayer, 

The white pavilions rose and fell 
On the alarmed air. 

Down the broad valley fast and far 

The troubled army fled ; 
Up rose the glorious morning star, 

The ghastly host was dead. 



98 ^ SELECTIONS FOR HEADING. 

I have read, in the marvellous heart of man, 

That strange and mystic scroll, 
That an army of phantoms vast and wan 

Beleaguer the human soul. 

Encamped beside Life's rushing stream, 

In Fancy's misty light, 
Gigantic shapes and shadows gleam 

Portentous through the night. 

Upon its midnight battle-ground 

The spectral camp is seen, 
And, with a sorrowful, deep sound, 

Flows the River of Life between. 

No other voice, nor sound is there, 

In the army of the grave ; 
No other challenge breaks the air, 

But the rushing of Life's wave. 

And, when the solemn and deep church-bell 

Entreats the soul to pray, 
The midnight phantoms feel the spell, 

The shadows sweep away. 

Down the broad Vale of Tears afar, 

The spectral camp is fled ; 
Faith shineth as a morning star, 

Our ghastly fears are dead. 

— [Henry W. Longfellow. 



Mrs. Caudle's Curtain Lecture upon Umbrellas. 

Bah! that's the third umbrella gone since Christmas. What 
were you to do? Wiry, let him go home in the rain to be sure. 
I'm very certain there was nothing about him that could spoil. 



MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURE UPON UMBRELLAS. 99 

Take cold, indeed! He doesn't look like one of the sort to take 
cold. Besides, he'd have better taken cold, than taken our um- 
brella. Do you hear the rain, Mr. Caudle ? I say, do you hear 
the rain ? Do you hear it against the windows ? Nonsense ! you 
don't impose upon me ; you can't be asleep with such a shower as 
that! Do you hear it, I say? Oh! you do hear it! well that's a 
pretty flood, I think, to last for six weeks ; and no stirring all the 
time out of the house. Pooh ! don't think me a fool, Mr. Caudle ; 
don't insult me; he return the umbrella! Anybody would think 
you were born yesterday. As if anybody- ever did return an um- 
brella! There! do you hear it? Worse and worse. Cats and 
dogs, and for six weeks, — always six weeks ; and no umbrella ! 

But I know why you lent the umbrella ; oh ! yes, I know very 
well! I was going out to tea at dear mother's to-morrow; you 
knew that, and you did it on purpose. Don't tell me ; you hate 
me to go there, and take every mean advantage to hinder me. 
But don't you think it, Mr. Caudle ; no, sir ; if it comes down in 
buckets full, I'll go all the more. No ; and I won't have a cab ! 
Where do you think the money's to come from? You've got nice 
high notions at that club of yours? A cab, indeed! Cost me 
sixteen-pence, at least ; sixteen-pence ! two-and-eight-pence ; for 
there's back again. Cabs, indeed! I should like to know who's 
to pay for 'em; for I'm sure you can't, if you go on as you do, 
throwing away your property, and beggaring your children, buy- 
ing umbrellas ! 

Do you hear the rain, Mr. Caudle ? I say, do you hear it ? But 
I don't care — I'll go to mother's to-morrow — I will ; and what's 
more I'll walk every step of the way ; and you know that will give 
me my death. Don't call me a foolish woman ; it's you that's the 
foolish man. You know I can't wear clogs ; and with no umbrella, 
the wet's sure to give me a cold ; it always does : but what do you 
care for that? Nothing at all. I may be laid up for what you 
care, as I dare say I shall; and a pretty doctor's bill there'll be. 
I hope there will. It will teach you to lend your umbrellas again. 
I shouldn't wonder if I caught my death; yes, and that's what 
you lent the umbrella for. Of course ! * * * 



100 SELECTIONS FOR READING. 

The children, too! (dear things!) they'll be sopping wet; for 
they shan't stay at home ; they shan't lose their learning ; it's all 
their father will leave them, I'm sure. But they shall go to school. 
Don't tell me they shouldn't ; (you are so aggravating, Caudle, 
you'd spoil the temper of an angel;) they shall go to school! 
mark that ! and if they get their deaths of cold, it's not my fault ; 
I didn't lend the umbrella. 

"Here," says Caudle, in his manuscript, "I fell asleep and 
dreamed that the sky was turned into green calico, with whalebone 
ribs ; that, in fact, the whole world revolved under a tremendous 
umbrella! " — [Douglas Jerrold. 



The Old Oaken Bucket. 

How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood, 

When fond recollection presents them to view ! 
The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wild-wood, 

And every loved spot which my infancy knew ; — 
The wide-spreading pond, and the mill which stood by it, 

The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell, 
The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it, 

And e'en the rude bucket that hung in the well. 
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, 
The moss-covered bucket, which hung in the well. 

That moss-covered vessel I hailed as a treasure ; 

For often at noon, when returned from the field, 
I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure, 

The purest and sweetest that nature can yield. 
How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing ! 

And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell ; 
Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing, 

And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well ; 
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, 
The moss-covered bucket, arose from the well. 



THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS. 101 

How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it, 

As, poised on the curb, it inclined to my lips ! 
Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it, 

Though filled with the nectar that Jupiter sips. 
And now, far removed from that loved situation, 

The tear of regret will intrusively swell, 
As fancy reverts to my father's plantation, 

And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the well ; 
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, 
The moss- covered bucket that hangs in the well. 

— [Samuel Woodworth. 



The Wreck of the Hesperus 
It was the schooner Hesperus, 

That sailed the wintry sea ; 
And the skipper had taken his little daughter, 

To bear him company. 

Blue were her eyes as the fairy flax, 
Her cheeks like the dawn of day, 

And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds, 
That ope in the month of May. 

The skipper he stood beside the helm, 

His pipe was in his mouth, 
And he watched how the veering flaw did blow 

The smoke, now West, now South. 

Then up and spake an old Sailor, 

Had sailed the Spanish Main, 
" I pray thee, put into j^onder port, 

For I fear a hurricane." 

' ' Last night, the moon had a golden ring, 
And to-night no moon we see ! ' ' 



102 SELECTIONS FOR READING. 

The skipper, he blew a whiff from his pipe, 
And a scornful laugh laughed he. 

Colder and louder blew the wind, 

A gale from the Northeast ; 
The snow fell hissing in the brine, 

And the billows frothed like yeast. 

Down came the storm, and smote amain, 

The vessel in its strength ; 
She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed, 

Then leaped her cable's length. 

" Come hither! come hither! my little daughter, 

And do not tremble so ; 
For I can weather the roughest gale, 

That ever wind did blow. ' ' 

He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat 

Against the stinging blast ; 
He cut a rope from a broken spar, 

And bound her to the mast. 

' ' O father ! I hear the church-bells ring, 

O say, what may it be? " 
" 'Tis a fog bell on a rock-bound, coast ! " — 

And he steered for the open sea. 

' ' O father ! I hear the sound of guns, 

O say, what may it be? " 
" Some ship in distress, that cannot live 

In such an angry sea. - " 

' ' O father ! I see a gleaming light, 

O say, what may it be ? " 
But the father answered never a word 

A frozen corpse was he. 



THE WRECK OP THE HESPERUS. 103 

Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark, 

With his face turned to the skies, 
The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow 

On his fixed and glassy eyes. 

Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed 

That saved she might be ; 
And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave, 
On the Lake of Galilee. 

And fast through the midnight dark and drear, 

Through the whistling sleet and snow, 
Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept 

Toward the reef of Norman's Woe. 

And ever the fitful gusts between 

A sound came from the land ; 
It was the sound of the trampling surf, 

On the rocks and the hard sea-sand. 

The breakers were right beneath her bows, 

She drifted a dreary wreck, 
And a whooping billow swept the crew 

Like icicles from the deck. 

She struck where the white and fleecy waves 

Looked soft as carded wool, 
But the cruel rocks, they gored her side 

Li£e the horns of an angry bull. 

Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice, 

With the masts went by the board ; 
Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank, 

Ho ! ho ! the breakers roared. 

At day-break, on the bleak sea-beach, 

A fisherman stood aghast, 
To see the form of a maiden fair, 

Lashed close to a drifting mast. 



104 SELECTIONS FOR READING-. 

The salt-sea was frozen on her breast, 

The salt tears in her eyes ; 
And he saw her hair, like the brown sea weed, 

On the billows fall and rise. 

Such was the wreck of the Hesperus, 

In the midnight and the snow ! 
Christ save us all from a death like this, 

On the reef of Norman's Woe! 

— [Henry W. Longfellow, 



Lament of Cardinal Wolset. 

Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness ! 
This is the state of man : to-day he puts forth 
The tender leaves of hopes ; to-morrow blossoms, 
And bears his blushing honors thick upon him ; 
The third day comes a frost, a killing frost, 
And when he thinks, good easy man, full surely 
His greatness is a ripening — nips his root, 
And then he falls as I do. 

I have ventured, 
Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders, 
This many summers in a sea of glory, 
But far beyond my depth : my high-blown pride 
At length broke under me, and now has left me 
Weary and old with service, to the mercy 
Of a rude stream, that must forever hide me. 

Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye : 
I feel my heart new opened. O, how wretched 
Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favors V 
There is betwixt that smile he would aspire to, 
That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin, 



RING OUT, WILD BELLS. 105 

More pangs and fears than wars or women have ; 

And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, — 

Never to hope again. 

— [William Shakspere. 



Ring Out, Wild Bells. 

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, 
The flying cloud, the frosty light ; 
The year is dying in the night ; 

Ring out, wild bells, and let him die. 

Ring out the old, ring in the new, 

Ring, happy bells, across the snow : 
The year is going, let him go ; 

Ring out the false, ring in the true. 

Ring out the grief that saps the mind, 
For those that here we see no more ; 
Ring out the feud of rich and poor, 

Ring in redress to all mankind. 

Ring out a slowly dying cause, 

And ancient forms of party strife ; 
Ring in the nobler modes of life, 

With sweeter manners, purer laws. 

Ring out the want, the care, the sin, 

The faithless coldness of the times ; 
Ring out, ring out, my mournful rhymes, 

But ring the fuller minstrel in. 

Ring out false pride in place and blood, 
The civic slander and the spite ; 
Ring in the love of truth and right 

Ring in the common love of good. 



106 SELECTIONS FOR READING. 

Ring out old shapes of foul disease, 

Ring out the narrowing lust of gold ; 
Ring out the thousand wars of old, 

Ring in the thousand years of peace. 

Ring in the valiant man and free, 

The larger heart, the kindlier hand ; 
Ring out the darkness of the land, 

Ring in the Christ that is to be. 

— [Alfred Tennyson. 



Anecdote of Judge Marshall. 

Not long since a gentleman was travelling in one of the counties 
of Virginia, and about the close of the day stopped at a public 
house to obtain refreshment and spend the night. He had been 
there but a short time, before an old man alighted from his gig, 
with the apparent intention of becoming his fellow guest at the 
same house. As the old man drove up, he observed that both the 
shafts of his gig were broken, and that they were held together 
by withes, formed from the bark of a hickory sapling. Our trav- 
eller observed further, that he was plainly clad, that his knee- 
buckles were loosened, and that something like negligence pervaded 
his dress. Conceiving him to be one of the honest yeomanry of 
our land, the courtesies of strangers passed between them, and 
they entered the tavern. It was about the same time, that an 
addition of three or four young gentlemen was made to their 
number ; most, if not all of them, of the legal profession. 

As soon as they became conveniently accommodated, the con- 
versation was turned, by one of the latter, upon the eloquent 
harangue which had that day been displayed at the bar. It was 
replied by the other, that he had witnessed, the same day, a de- 
gree of eloquence, no doubt equal, but that it was from the pulpit. 
Something like a sarcastic rejoinder was made to the eloquence of 
the pulpit ; and a warm and able altercation ensued, in which the 






ANECDOTE OF JUDGE MARSHALL. 107 

merits of the Christian religion became the subject of discussion. 
From six o'clock until eleven the young champions wielded the 
sword of argument, adducing with ingenuity and ability every 
thing that could be said pro and con. During this protracted 
period, the old gentleman listened with all the meekness and 
modesty of a child ; as if he was adding new information to the 
stores of his own mind ; or perhaps he was observing with philo- 
sophic eye the faculties of the youthful mind, and how new ener- 
gies are evolved by repeated action ; or perhaps, with patriotic 
emotion, he was reflecting upon the future destinies of his country, 
and on the rising generation upon whom these future destinies 
must devolve ; or most probably, with a sentiment of moral and 
religious feeling, he was collecting an argument which (charac- 
teristic of himself) no art would be " able to elude, and no force 
to resist." Our traveller remained a spectator, and took no part 
in what was said. 

At last, one of the young men, remarking that it was impossible 
to combat with long and established prejudices, wheeled around, 
and with some familiarity exclaimed, "Well, my old gentleman, 
what think you of these things? " If, said the traveller, a streak 
of vivid lightning had at that moment crossed the room, their amaze- 
ment could not have been greater than it was with what followed. 
The most eloquent and unanswerable appeal was made for nearly 
an hour, by the old gentleman, that he ever heard or read. So 
perfect was his recollection, that every argument urged against 
the Christian religion was met in the order in which it was ad- 
vanced. Hume's sophistry on the subject of miracles was, if 
possible, more perfectly answered than it had already been done 
by Campbell. And in the whole lecture there was so much sim- 
plicity and energy, pathos and sublimity, that not another word 
was uttered. An attempt to describe it, said the traveller, would 
be an attempt to paint the sunbeams. It was now a matter of 
curiosity and inquiry, who the old gentleman was. The traveller 
concluded that it was the preacher from whom the pulpit eloquence 
was heard ; but no, — it was John Marshall, the Chief Justice 
of the United States. — [Anonymous. 



108 SELECTIONS FOR READING. 



The Mat Queen. 



You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear ; 
To-morrow '11 be the happiest time of all the glad new-year ; 
Of all the glad new-year, mother, the maddest, merriest day ; 
For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the 
May. 

ii. 

There's many a black, black eye, they say, but none so bright as 

mine ; 
There's Margaret and Mary, there's Kate and Caroline ; 
But none so fair as little Alice in all the land, they say : 
So I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the 

May. 

in. 

I sleep so sound all night, motl^er, that I shall never wake, 
If you do not call me loud when the day begins to break ; 
But I must gather knots of flowers, and buds, and garlands gay, 
For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the 
May. 

IV. 

As I came up the valley, whom think ye should I see 
But Robin leaning on the bridge beneath the hazel-tree? 
He thought of that sharp look, mother, I gave him yesterday, — 
But I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the 
May. 



He thought I was a ghost, mother, for I was all in white, 
And I ran by him without speaking, like a flash of light. 



THE MAY QUEEN. 109 

They call me cruel-hearted, but I care not what they say, 
For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the 
May. 

VI. 

They say he's dying all for love, — but that can never be : 
They say his heart is breaking, mother, — what is that to me? 
There's many a bolder lad '11 woo me any summer day ; 
And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the 
May. 

VII. 

Little Effie shall go with me to-morrow to the green, 
And you'll be there, too, mother, to see me made the Queen ; 
For the shepherd lads on every side '11 come from far away ; 
And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the 
May. 

VIII. 

The honeysuckle round the porch has woven its wavy bowers, 
And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet cuckoo-flowers ; 
And the wild marsh-marigold shines like fire in swamps and hollows 

gray; 
And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the 

May. 

IX. 

The night- winds come and go, mother, upon the meadow-grass, 
And the happy stars above them seem to brighten as^ they pass ; . 
There will not be a drop of rain the whole of the livelong day ; 
And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' tlm 
May. 

x. 

All the valley, mother, '11 be fresh and green and still, 
And the cowslip and the crowfoot are over all the hill, 
And the rivulet in the flowery dale '11 merrily dance and play, 
For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the 
May. 



110 SELECTIONS FOR READING. 



So you must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear, 
To-morrow '11 be the happiest time of all the glad New- Year ; 
To-morrow '11 be of all the year the maddest, merriest day, 
For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the 
May. 



New Year's Eve. 
i. 



If you're waking, call me early, call me early, mother dear, 

For I would see the sun rise up on the glad new-year. 

It is the last new-year that I shall ever see, — 

Then you may lay me low i' the mould, and think no more of me. 



To-night I saw the sun set, — he set and left behind 
The good old year, the dear old time, and all my peace of mind ; 
And the new-year's coming up, mother ; but I shall never see 
The blossom on the blackthorn, the leaf upon the tree. 

in. 

Last May we made a crown of flowers ; we had a merry day, — 
Beneath the hawthorn on the green they made me Queen of May ; 
And we danced about the May-pole and in the hazel-copse, 
Till Charles's Wain came out above the tall white chimney-tops. 



There's not a flower on all the hills, — the frost is on the pane ; 
I only wish to live till the snow-drops come again. 
I wish the snow would melt and the sun come out on high, — 
I long to see a flower so before the day I die. 



NEW YEAR'S EVE. Ill 



The building rook '11 caw from the windy tall elm- tree, 

And the tufted plover pipe along the fallow lea, 

And the swallow '11 come back again with summer o'er the wave^ 

But I shall lie alone, mother, within the mouldering grave. 



Upon the chancel-casement, and upon that grave of mine, 
In the early, early morning the summer sun '11 shine, 
Before the red cock crows from the farm upon the hill, — 
When you are warm asleep, mother, and all the world is still. 

VII. 

When the flowers come again, mother, beneath the waning light 
You'll never see me more in the long gray fields at night ; 
When from the dry dark wold the summer airs blow cool 
On the oat-grass and the sword-grass, and the bulrush in the pool. 

VIII. 

You'll bury me, my mother, just beneath the hawthorn shade, 
And you'll come sometimes and see me where I am lowly laid. 
I shall not forget you, mother ; I shall hear you when you pass, 
With vour feet above my head in the long and pleasant grass. 

IX. 

I have been wild and wayward, but you'll forgive me now ; 
You'll kiss me, my own mother, upon my cheek and brow ; 
Nay, nay, you must not weep, nor let your grief be wild ; 
You should not fret for me, mother, — you have another child. 



If I can, I'll come again, mother, from out my resting place ; 
Though you'll not see me, mother, I shall look upon your face ; 
Though I cannot speak a word, I shall hearken what you say, 
And be often, often with you when you think I'm far away. 



112 SELECTIONS FOR READING. 



XI. 



Good-night! good- night! when I have said good- night forever- 
more, 
A.nd you see me carried out from the threshold of the door, 
Don't let Effie come to see me till my grave be growing green, — 
She'll be a better child to you than ever I have been. 

XII. 

She'll find my garden tools upon the granary floor. 
Let her take 'em, — they are hers ; I shall never garden more. 
But tell her, when I'm gone, to train the rose-bush that I set 
About the parlor window and the box of mignonette. 

XIII. 

Good-night, sweet mother ! Call me before the day is born. 
All night I lie awake, .but I fall asleep at morn ; 
But I would see the sun rise upon the glad new-year, — 
So, if you're waking, call me, call me early, mother dear. 



Conclusion. 



I thought to pass away before, and yet alive I am ; 

And in the fields all round I hear the bleating of the lamb. 

How sadly, I remember, rose the morning of the year ! 

To die before the snow-drop came, and now the violet's here. 



O, sweet is the new violet, that comes beneath the skies ; 
And sweeter is the young lamb's voice to me that cannot rise ; 
And sweet is all the land about, and all the flowers that blow ; 
And sweeter far is death than life, to me that long to go. 



CONCLUSION. 113 



It seemed so hard at first, mother, to leave the blessed sun, 
And now it seems as hard to stay ; and yet, His will be done ! 
But still I think it can't be long before I find release ; 
And that good man, the clergyman, has told me words of peace. 

IV. 

O, blessings on his kindly voice and on his silver hair ! 
And blessings on his whole lif e long, until he meet me there ! 
O, blessings on his kindly heart and on his silver head ! 
A thousand times I blest him, as he knelt beside my bed. 

v. 

He taught me all the mercy, for he showed me all the sin ; 
Now, though my lamp was lighted late, there's One will let me in. 
Nor would I now be well, mother, again, if that could be ; 
For my desire is but to pass to Him that died for me. 

VI. 

I did not hear the dog howl, mother, or the death-watch beat, — 
There came a sweeter token when the night and morning meet ; 
But sit beside my bed, mother, and put your hand in mine, 
And Effie on the other side, and I will tell the,sigu. 

VII. 

All in the wild March morning I heard the angels call ; 
It was when the moon was setting, and the dark was over all ; 
The trees began to whisper, and the wind began to roll, 
And in the wild March morning I heard them call my soul. 

VIII. 

For lying broad awake, I thought of 3^011 and Effie dear ; 

I saw you sitting in the house, and I no longer here ; 

With all my strength I prayed for both, — and so I felt resigned, 

And up the valley came a swell of music on the wind. 



114 SELECTIONS FOR READING. 



I thought that it was fancy, and I listened in my bed ; 
And then did something speak to me, — I know not what was said 
For great delight and shuddering took hold of all my mind, 
And up the valley came again the music on the wind. 



x. 

But you were sleeping ; and I said, " It' s not for them, — it' s mine. 
And if it comes three times, I thought, I take it for a sign. 
And once again it came, and close beside the window-bars ; 
Then seemed to go right up to heaven and die among the stars. 

XI. 

So now I think my time is near ; I trust it is. I know 
The blessed music went that way my soul will have to go. 
And for myself, indeed, I care not if I go to-day ; 
But Erne, you must comfort her when I am past away. 

XII. 

And say to Robin a kind word, and tell him not to fret ; 
There's many worthier than I, would make him happy yet. 
If I had lived — I cannot tell — I might have been his wife ; 
But all these things have ceased to be, with my desire of life. 

XIII. 

O look ! the sun begins to rise ! the heavens are in a glow ; 
He shines upon a hundred fields, and all of them I know. 
And there I move no longer now, and there his light may shine, - 
Wild flowers in the valley for other hands than mine. 

XIV. 

O, sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this day is done 
The voice that now is speaking may be beyond the sun, — 



INVECTIVE AGAINST CATILINE. 115 

Forever and forever with those just souls and true, — 

And what is life, that we should moan? why make we such ado? 

xv. 

Forever and forever, all in a blessed home, 
And there to wait a little while till you and Effie come, — 
To lie within the light of God, as I lie upon your breast, — 
And the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest. 

— [Alfred Tennyson. 



Invective against Catiline. 

How far, O Catiline ! wilt thou abuse our patience ? How long 
shalt thou baffle justice in thy mad career? To what extreme wilt 
thou carry thy audacity ? Art thou nothing daunted by the nightly 
watch, posted to secure the Palatium? Nothing, by the city 
guards? Nothing, by the rally of all good citizens? Nothing, 
by the assembling of the Senate in this fortified place ? Nothing, 
by the averted looks of all here present ? Seest thou not that all 
thy plots are exposed ? — that thy wretched conspiracy is laid bare 
to the knowledge of every man here in the Senate ? — that we are 
well aware of thy proceedings of last night ; of the night before ; the 
place of meeting, the company convoked, the measures concerted ? 
O, the times ! O, the morals of the times ! The Senate understand 
all this. The Consul sees it. And yet the traitor lives ! Lives ? 
Ay, truly, and confronts us here in council, — presumes to take 
part in our deliberations, — and, with his calculating eye, marks 
out each one of us for slaughter ! And we, the while, think we 
have amply discharged our duty to the State, if we do but succeed 
in warding off this madman's sword and fury ! 

Long since, O Catiline ! ought the Consul to have ordered thee 
to execution, and brought upon thy own head the destruction thou 
hast been plotting against others ! There was in Rome that virtue 
once, that a wicked citizen was held more execrable than the dead- 



116 SELECTIONS FOR READING. 






liest foe. For thee, Catiline, we have still a law. Think not, 
because we are forbearing, that we are powerless. 

We have a statute, — though it rests among our archives like a 
sword in its scabbard, — a statute which makes thy life the forfeit 
of thy crimes. And, should I order thee to be instantly seized 
and put to death, I do not doubt that all good men would say that 
the punishment, instead of being too cruel, was only too long 
deferred. But for sufficient reasons, I will for a while postpone 
the blow. Then will I doom thee, when no man is to be found, 
so lost to reason, so depraved, — so like thyself, that he will not 
admit the sentence was deserved. 

While there is one man who ventures to defend thee — live! 
But thou shalt live so beset, so hemmed in, so watched, that thou 
shalt not stir a foot against the Republic, without my knowledge. 

Baffled on all sides, thy most secret projects clear as noonday, 
what canst thou now devise? Proceed, plot, conspire, as thou 
wilt, — there is nothing thou canst contrive, propose, attempt, 
which I shall not promptly be made aware of. Thou shalt soon 
be convinced that I am even more active in providing for the 
preservation of the State, than thou, in plotting its destruction. 
— [Cicero. 



To-morrow. 



To-morow, didst thou say ? 
Methought I heard Horatio say, To-morrow. 
Go to — I will not hear of it — To-morrow ! 
'Tis a sharper, who stakes his penury 
Against thy plenty — who takes thy ready Cash, 
And pays thee nought, but wishes, hopes, and promises, 
The currency of idiots. Injurious bankrupt, 
That gulls the easy creditor ! — To-morrow ! 
It is a period nowhere to be found 
In all the hoary registers of time, 
Unless perchance in the fool's calendar. 



THE HURRICANE. 117 

Wisdom disclaims the word, nor holds society 
With those who own it. No, my Horatio, 
'Tis Fancy's child, and Folly is its father ; 
Wrought of such stuff as dreams are, and as baseless 
As the fantastic visions of the evening. 

But soft, my friend — arrest the present moments ; 
For be assur'd, they all are arrant tell-tales ; 
And tho' their flight be silent, and their path trackless, 
As the winged couriers of the air, 
They post to Heaven, and there record thy folly. 
Because, tho' station' d on the important watch, 
Thou, like a sleeping, faithless sentinel, 
Didst let them pass unnotic'd, unimprov'd. 
And know, for that thou slumber' dst on the guard, 
Thou shalt be made to answer at the bar 
For every fugitive : and when thou thus 
Shalt stand impleaded at the high tribunal 
Of hood-winkt justice, who shall tell thy audit? 

Then stay the present instant, dear Horatio ; 
Imprint the marks of wisdom on its wings. 
'Tis of more worth than kingdoms ! far more precious 
Than all the crimson treasures of life's fountain ! — 
Oh ! let it not elude thy grasp, but, like 
The good old patriarch upon record, 
Hold the fleet angel fast until he bless thee. 

— [Nathaniel Cotton. 



The Hurricane. 



Lord of the winds ! I feel thee nigh, 
I know thy breath in the burning sky ! 
And I wait, with a thrill in every vein, 
For the coming of the hurricane ! 

And lo ! on the wing of the heavy gales, 
Through the boundless arch of heaven he sails. 



118 SELECTIONS FOR HEADING. 

Silent and slow, and terribly strong, 
The mighty shadow is borne along, 
Like the dark eternity to come ; 
While the calm of the thick hot atmosphere 
Looks up at its gloomy folds with fear. 

They darken fast ; and the golden blaze 

Of the sun is quenched in the lurid haze, 

And he sends through the shade a funeral ray - 

A glare that is neither night nor day, 

A beam that touches with hues of death, 

The clouds above and the earth beneath. 

To its covert glides the silent bird, 

While the hurricane's distant voice is heard 

Uplifted among the mountains round, 

And the forests hear and answer the sound. 

He is come ! he is come ! do ye not behold 

His ample robes on the wind unrolled ? 

Giant of air ! we bid thee hail ! — 

How his gray skirts toss in the whirling gale ; 

How his huge and writhing arms are bent 

To clasp the zone of the firmament, 

And fold at length, in their dark embrace, 

From mountain to mountain the visible space. 

Darker, — still darker ! the whirlwinds bear 
The dust of the plains to the middle air ; 
And hark to the crashing, long and loud, 
Of the chariot of God in the thunder-cloud ! 
You may trace its path by the flashes that start 
From the rapid wheels where'er they dart, 
As the fire-bolts leap to the world below, 
And flood the skies with a lurid glow. 

What roar is that? — 'tis the rain that breaks 
In torrents away from the airy lakes, 



READING. 119 

Heavily poured on the shuddering ground, 

And shedding a nameless horror round. 

Ah, well-known woods, and mountains, and skies, 

With the very clouds ! — ye are lost to my eyes. 

I seek ye vainly, and see in your place 

The shadowy tempest that sweeps through space, 

A whirling ocean that fills the wall 

Of the crystal heaven, and buries all. 

And I, cut off from the world, remain 

Alone with the terrible hurricane. 

— [William Cullen Bryant. 



Reading. 



Reading is, in fact, the nourishment of the mind, for by reading, 
we know our Creator, his works, ourselves chiefly, and our fellow- 
creatures. But this nourishment is easily converted into poison. 
Salmasius had read as much as Grotius, perhaps, more ; but their 
different modes of reading made the one an enlightened philos- 
opher, and the other, to speak plainly, a pedant, puffed up with a 
useless erudition. 

Let us read with method, and propose to ourselves an end to 
which all our studies may point. Through neglect of this rule, 
gross ignorance often disgraces great readers ; who, by skipping 
hastily and irregularly from one subject to another, render them- 
selves incapable of combining their ideas. So many detached 
parcels of knowledge cannot form a whole. This inconsistency 
weakens the energies of the mind, creates in it a dislike to appli- 
cation, and even robs it of the advantages of natural good sense. 
Yet let us avoid the contrary extreme, and respect method, with- 
out rendering ourselves its slaves. While we propose an end in 
our reading, let not this end be too remote ; and when once we 
have attained it, let our attention be directed to a different sub- 
ject. Inconstancy weakens the understanding; a long and exclu- 
sive application to a single subject hardens and contracts it. 



120 SELECTIONS FOR READING. 

Our ideas no longer change easily into a different channel, and 
the course of reading to which we have too long accustomed our- 
selves, is the only one that we can pursue with pleasure. 

We ought, besides, to be careful not to naake the order of our 
thoughts subservient to that of our subjects ; this would be to 
sacrifice the principle to the accessory. The use of our reading 
is to aid us in thinking. The perusal of a particular work gives 
birth, perhaps, to ideas unconnected with the subject of which it 
treats. I wish to pursue these ideas ; they withdraw rue from my 
proposed plan of reading, and throw me into a new track, and 
from thence, perhaps, into a second and a third. At length I 
begin to perceive whither nry researches tend. Their result, per- 
haps, may be profitable ; it is worth while to try ; whereas, had I 
followed the high road, I should not have been able, at the end of 
my long journey, to retrace the progress of ray thoughts. This 
plan of reading is not applicable to our early studies, since the 
severest method is scarcely sufficient to make us conceive objects 
altogether new. Neither can it be adopted by those who read in 
order to write, and who ought to dwell on their subject till they 
have sounded its depth. 

These reflections, however, I do not absolutely warrant. On 
the supposition that they are just, they may be so, perhaps, for 
myself only. The constitution of minds differs like that of bodies ; 
the same regimen will not suit all. Each individual ought to study 
his own. 

To read with attention, exactly to define the expressions of our 
author, never to admit a conclusion without comprehending its 
reason, often to pause, reflect, and interrogate ourselves, — these 
are so many advices which it is easy to give, but difficult to follow. 
The same may be said of that almost evangelical maxim of forget- 
ting friends, country, religion, of giving merit its due praise, and 
embracing truth wherever it is to be found. 

But what ought we to read ? Each individual must answer this 
question for himself, agreeably to the object of his studies. The 
only general precept that I would venture to give, is that of Pliny, 
' ' to read much, rather than many tilings ; " to make a careful 



A CARRONADE AT LIBERTY. 121 

selection of the best works, and to render them familiar to ns by 
attentive and repeated perusals. 

Without expatiating on the authors so generally known and ap- 
proved, I would simply observe, that in matters of reasoning, the 
best are those who have augmented the number of useful truths ; 
who have discovered truths, of whatever nature they may be ; in 
one word, those bold spirits who, quitting the beaten track, prefer 
being in the wrong alone, to being in the right with the multitude. 
Such authors increase the number of our ideas, and even their 
mistakes are useful to their successors. With all the respect due 
to Mr. Locke, I would not, however, neglect the works of those 
academicians who destroy errors without hoping to substitute truth 
in their stead. 

In works of fancy, invention ought to bear away the palm; 
chiefly that invention which creates a new kind of writing ; and 
next, that which displays the charms of novelty in its subject, 
characters, situation, pictures, thoughts and sentiments. Yet this 
invention will miss its effect, unless it be accompanied with a 
genius capable of adapting itself to every variety of the subject, — 
successively sublime, pathetic, flowery, majestic, and playful ; and 
with a judgment which admits nothing indecorous, and a style 
which expresses well whatever ought to be said. 

As to compilations which are intended merely to treasure up the 
thoughts of others, I ask whether they are written with perspicuity, 
whether superfluities are lopped off, and dispersed observations 
skillfully collected ; and agreeably to my answers to those ques- 
tions, I estimate the merit of such performances. — [Edward 
Gibbon. 



A Carronade at Liberty. 

{Harpers' 1 Translation of " Ninety -fluee.") 
A frightful thing had just happened ! 

One of the carronades of the battery, a twenty-four pounder, 
had got loose. 

This is, perhaps, the most formidable of ocean accidents. 



122 SELECTIONS FOR READING. 

Nothing more terrible can happen to a vessel in open sea and 
under full sail. 

A gun that breaks its moorings becomes suddenly some inde- 
scribable supernatural beast. It is a machine which transforms 
itself into a monster. This mass turns upon its wheels, rolls 
with the rolling, pitches with the pitching ; goes, comes, pauses, 
seems to meditate ; resumes its course, rushes along the ship from 
end to end like an arrow, circles about, springs aside, evades, 
rears, breaks, kills, exterminates. It is a battering-ram which 
assaults a wall at its own caprice. Moreover, the battering-ram 
is metal ; the wall, wood. It is the entrance of matter into liberty. 

The mad mass has the bounds of a panther, the weight of the 
elephant, the agility of the mouse, the obstinacy of the ox, the 
unexpectedness of the surge, the rapidity of lightning, the deaf- 
ness of the tomb. It weighs ten thousand pounds, and it rebounds 
like a child's ball. Its flight is a wild whirl abruptly cut at right 
angles. What is to be done? How to end this? In what way 
can one attack or control this enormous brute of bronze ? 

You can make a mastiff hear reason, fascinate a boa, frighten a 
tiger, soften a lion ; but there is no resource with that monster, a 
cannon let loose. You cannot kill it — it is dead ; at the same 
time it lives. It lives with a sinister life bestowed on it by 
Infinity. * * * 

In an instant the whole crew were on foot. Accustomed to 
laugh in battle, they trembled now. To describe the universal 
terror would be impossible. 

The captain and lieutenant, although both intrepid men, stopped 
at the head of the stairs, and remained mute, pale, hesitating, 
looking down on the deck. Some one pushed them aside with his 
elbow and descended. 

It was their passenger — the peasant. 

When he reached the foot of the ladder, he stood still. 

The cannon came and went along the deck. One might have 
fancied it the living chariot of the Apocalypse. The marine- 
lantern oscillating from the ceiling added a dizzying whirl of 
lights and shadows to this vision. The shape of the cannon was 






A CARRONADE AT LIBERTY. 123 

^indistinguishable from the rapidity of its course ; now it looked 
black in the light, now it cast weird reflections through the 
gloom. 

It kept on its work of destruction. It dashed frantically 
against the frame-work ; the solid tie-beams resisted, their curved 
form giving them great strength, but they creaked ominously 
under the assaults of this terrible club, which seemed endowed 
with a sort of appalling ubiquity, striking on every side at once. 
The whole ship was filled with the awful tumult. There were 
gashes and even fractures in the masts. The battery was being 
destroyed. Ten pieces out of the thirty were disabled. The 
breaches multiplied in the side, and the corvette began to take in 
water. 

The old passenger, who had descended to the gun-deck, looked 
like a form of stone stationed at the foot of the stairs. He stood 
motionless, gazing sternly about upon the devastation. Indeed, 
it seemed impossible to take a single step forward. 

Each bound of the liberated carronade menaced the destruction 
of the vessel. A few minutes more and shipwreck would be inev- 
itable. 

They must perish or put a summary end to the disaster — a deci- 
sion must be made — but how ? 

What a combatant — this cannon! They must check this mad 
monster. They must seize this flash of lightning. They must 
overthrow this thunderbolt. 

All were silent. The cannon kept up its horrible fracas. 

The waves beat against the ship ; their blows from without 
responded to the strokes of the cannon. 

It was like two hammers alternating. 

Suddenly, into the midst of this sort of inaccessible circus, 
where the escaped cannon leaped and bounded, there sprang a 
man with an iron bar in his hand. It was the author of this catas- 
trophe, the gunner whose culpable negligence had caused the acci- 
dent — the captain of the gun. Having been the means of bring- 
ing about the misfortune, he desired to repair it. Then a strange 
combat began ; a titanic strife — the struggle of the gun against 



124 SELECTIONS FOB, READING. 

the gunner ; a battle between matter and intelligence ; a duel 
between the inanimate and the human. 

He waited for the cannon to pass near him. 

The gunner knew his piece, and it seemed to him that she must 
recognize her master. He had lived a Ions* time with her. How 
many times he had thrust his hand between her jaws ! It was his 
tame monster. He began to address it as he might have done his 
dog. 

" Come !" said he. Perhaps he loved it. 

He seemed to wish that it would turn toward him. 

But to come toward him would be to spring upon him. Then 
he would be lost. How to avoid its crush? There was the ques- 
tion. All stared in terrified silence. 

Beneath them the blind sea directed the battle. 

At the instant when, accepting this awful hand-to-hand contest, 
the gunner approached to challenge the cannon, some chance fluc- 
tuation of the waves kept it for a moment immovable, as if sud- 
denly stupefied. 

' ' Come on ! " the man said to it. It seemed to listen. 

Suddenly it darted upon him. The gunner avoided the shock. 

The struggle began — struggle unheard of. The fragile match- 
ing itself against the invulnerable. The thing of flesh attacking 
the brazen brute. On the one side blind force ; on the other, a 
soul. 

The whole passed in half-light. It was like the indistinct vision 
of a miracle. 

A soul — strange thing ; but you would have said that the can- 
non had one also — a soul filled with rage and hatred. This blind- 
ness appeared to have eyes. The monster had the air of watching 
the man. 

Nevertheless, the man fought. Sometimes, even, it was the 
man who attacked the cannon. He crept along the sides, bar and 
rope in hand, and the. cannon had the air of understanding, and 
fled as if it perceived a snare. The man pursued it, formidable, 
fearless. 

Such a duel could not last long. The gun*seemed suddenly to 



A CARRONADE AT LIBERTY. 125 

say to itself, " Come, we must make an end ! " and it paused. It 
sprang unexpectedly upon the gunner. He jumped aside, let it 
pass, and cried out with a laugh, "Try again!" The gun, as if 
in a fury, broke a carronade to larboard ; then, seized anew by 
the invisible sling which held it, was flung to starboard towards 
the man, who escaped. 

The gunner had taken refuge at the foot of the stairs, a few 
steps from the old man, who was watching. The cannon seemed 
to perceive him, and, without taking the trouble to turn itself, 
backed upon him with the quickness of an axe-stroke. The gun- 
ner, if driven back against the side, was lost. The crew uttered 
a simultaneous cr}^. 

But the old passenger, until now immovable, made a spring 
more rapid than all these wild whirls. He seized a bale of the 
false assignats, and at the risk of being crushed, succeeded in 
flinging it between the wheels of the carronade. 

The bale had the effect of a plug. A pebble may stop a log, 
a tree-branch turn an avalanche. The carronade stumbled. The 
gunner, in his turn, seizing this terrible chance, plunged his iron 
bar between the spokes of one of the wheels. The cannon was 
stopped. It staggered. The man, using the bar as a lever, 
rocked it to and fro. The heavy mass turned over with a clang 
like a falling bell, the gunner rushed forward headlong and passed 
the slipping noose about the bronze neck of the overthrown 
monster. 

It was ended. T.he man had conquered. The ant had subdued 
the mastodon ; the pigmy had taken the thunderbolt prisoner. 

The marines and the sailors clapped their hands. 

The whole crew hurried down' with cables and chains, and in an 
instant the cannon was securely lashed. 

The gunner saluted the passenger. 

' ' Sir, ' ' he said to him, ' ' you have saved my life. ' ' 

The old man had resumed his impassible attitude, and did not 
reply. — [Victor Hugo. 



126 SELECTIONS FOR READING. 



The One-Hoss Shay. 

Have you heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay, 

That was built in such a logical way 

It ran a hundred years to a day, 

And then of a sudden, it — ah, but stay, 

I'll tell you what happened without delay, 

Scaring the parson into fits, 

Frightening people out of their wits, — 

Have you ever heard of that, I say ? 

Seventeen hundred and fifty-five. 
Georgius Secundus was then alive, — 
Snuffy old drone from the German hive. 
That was the year when Lisbon-town 
Saw the earth open and gulp her down, 
And Braddock's army was done so brown, 
Left without a scalp to its crown. 
It was on the terrible Earthquake-day 
That the Deacon finished the one-hoss shay. 

Now in building of chaises, I tell you what, 

There is always somewhere a weakest spot, — 

In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill, 

In panel, or cross-bar, or floor, or sill, 

In screw, bolt, thoroughbrace, — lurking still, 

Find it somewhere you must and will, — 

Above or below, or within or without, — 

And that's the reason, beyond a doubt, 

A chaise breaks down, but doesn't ivear out. 

But the Deacon swore (as Deacons do 

With an "I dew vum," or an " I tell yeou,") 

He would build one shay to beat the taown 

'n' the keounty 'n' all the kentry raoun' ; 

It should be so built that it couldn' break daown 



THE ONE-HOSS SHAY. 127 

— "Fur," said the Deacon, " 't's mighty plain 
Thut the weakes' place mus' stan' the strain ; 
'n' the way t' fix it, uz I maintain, 

Is only jest 
T' make that place uz strong uz the rest." 

So the Deacon inquired of the village folk 

Where he could find the strongest oak, 

That couldn't be split nor bent nor broke, — 

That was for spokes and floor and sills, 

He sent for lancewood to make the thills ; 

The cross-bars were ash, from the straightest trees ; 

The panels of whitewood, that cuts like cheese, 

But lasts like iron for things like these ; 

The hubs of logs from the " Settler's ellum," — 

Last of its timber, — they couldn't sell 'em, 

Never an axe had seen their chips, 

And the wedges flew from between their lips, 

Their blunt ends frizzled like celery- tips ; 

Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw, 

Spring, tire, axle, and linchpin too, 

Steel of the finest, bright and blue ; 

Thoroughbrace bison-skin, thick and wide ; 

Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hide 

Found in the pit when the tanner died. 

That was the way he "put her through." — 

"There," said the Deacon, " naow she'll dew." 

Do ! I tell you, I rather guess 

She was a wonder, and nothing less ! 

Colts grew horses, beards turned gray, 

Deacon and deaconess dropped away, 

Children and grandchildren, — where were they? 

But there stood the stout old one-hoss shay 

As fresh as on Lisbon-earthquake-day. 

EIGHTEEN HUNDRED ; —it came and found 
The Deacon's masterpiece strong and sound. 



128 SELECTIONS FOR READING. 

Eighteen hundred increased by ten ; — 
' ' Hahnsum kerridge ' ' they called it then. 
Eighteen hundred and twenty came ; — 
Running as usual ;. much the same. 
Thirty and forty at last arrive, 
And then came fifty, and Fifty-Five. 

Little of all we value here 

Wakes on the morn of its hundredth year 

Without both feeling and looking queer. 

In fact, there's nothing that keeps its youth, 

So far as I know, but a tree and truth. 

(This is a moral that runs at large ; 

Take it. — You're welcome. — No extra charge.) 

FIRST OF NOVEMBER, —the Earthquake-day.. 
There are traces of age in the one-hoss shay, 
A general flavor of mild decay, 
But nothing local as one may say. * 
There couldn't be, — for the Deacon's art 
Had made it so like in every part 
That there wasn't a chance for one to start. 
For the wheels were just as strong as the thills, 
And the floor was just as strong as the sills, 
And the panels just as strong as the floor, 
And the whippletree neither less nor more, 
And the back<-cross-bar as strong as the fore, 
And spring and axle and hub encore. 
And yet, as a whole, it is past a doubt 
In another hour it will be worn out ! 

First of November, 'Fifty-five ! 

This morning the parson takes a drive. 

Now, small boys, get out of the way ! 

Here comes the wonderful one-hoss shay, 

Drawn by a rat-tailed, ewe-necked bay. 

" Huddup ! " said the parson. — Off went they. 

The parson was working his Sunday's text, — 



SPEECH OF BRUTUS ON THE DEATH OF CAESAR. 129 

Had got to fifthly, and stopped perplexed 

At what the — Moses — was coming next. 

All at once the horse stood still, 

Close by the meet' n' -house on the hill. 

— First a shiver, and then a thrill, 

Then something decidedly like a spill, — 

And the parson was sitting upon a rock, 

At half -past nine by the meet' n' -house clock, — 

Just the hour of the Earthquake shock ! 

— What do you think the parson found, 

When he got up and stared around ? 

The poor old chaise in a heap or mound, 

As if it had been to the mill and ground ! 

You see, of course, if you're not a dunce, 

How it went to pieces all at once, — 

All at once, and nothing first, — 

Just as bubbles do when they burst. 

End of the wonderful one-hoss shay. 
Logic is logic. That's all I say. 

— [Oliver W. Holmes. 



Speech of Brutus on the Death of Cesar. 

Romans, countrymen, and lovers ! hear me for my cause ; and 
be silent, that you may hear : Believe me for mine honor ; and 
have respect to mine honor, that you may believe : censure me in 
your wisdom ; and awake your senses, that you may the better 
judge. If there be any in this assembly, any dear friend of 
Caesar's,' to him I say that Brutus' love to Caesar was no less than 
his. If, then, that friend demand why Brutus rose against Caesar, 
this is my answer, — Not that I loved Caesar less, but that I loved 
Rome more. Had you rather Caesar were living, and die all slaves, 
than that Caesar were dead, to live all freemen? As Caesar loved 
me, I weep for him ; as he was fortunate, I rejoice at it ; as he 

9 



130 , SELECTIONS FOR READING. 

was valiant, I honor him : but, as he was ambitious, I slew him. 
There is tears for his love ; joy for his fortune ; honor for his 
valor; and death for his ambition. Who is here so base that 
would be a bondman ? If any, speak ; for him have I offended. 
Who is here so rude that would not be a Roman ? If any, speak ; 
for him have I offended. Who is here so vile that will not love 
his country ? If any, speak ; for him have I offended. I pause 
for a reply. 

None? then none have I offended. I have done no more 
to Caesar than you shall do to Brutus. The question of his death 
is enroll' d in the Capitol; his glory not extenuated, wherein he 
was worthy; nor his offences enforced, for which he suffered 
death. 

Here comes his body, mourn' d by Mark Antony; who, though 
he had no hand in his death, shall receive the benefit of his dying, 
a place in the commonwealth ; As which of you shall not ? With 
this I depart, — That, as I slew my best lover for the good of Rome, 
I have the same dagger for myself, when it shall please my coun- 
try to need my death. — [ William Shakspere. 



Thanatopsis. 



To him, who, in the love of Nature, holds 

Communion with her visible forms, she speaks 

A various language : for his gayer hours 

She has a voice of gladness, and a smile 

And eloquence of beauty ; and she glides 

Into his dark musings with a mild 

And gentle sympathy, that steals away 

Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts 

Of the last bitter hour come like a blight 

Over thy spirit, and sad images 

Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, 

And breathless darkness, and the narrow house, 



THANATOPSIS . 131 

Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart, 

Go forth under the open sky, and list 

To Nature's teachings, while from all around — 

Earth and her waters, and the depths of air — 

Comes a still voice, — Yet a few days, and thee 

The all-beholding sun shall see no more 

In all his course ; nor yet in the cold ground, 

Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears, 

Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist 

Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim 

Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again ; 

And, lost each human trace, surrendering up 

Thine individual being, shalt thou go 

To mix for ever with the elements ; 

To be a brother to the insensible rock, 

And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain 

Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak 

Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould. 

Yet not to thy eternal resting place 

Shalt thou retire alone, — nor couldst thou wish 

Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down 

With patriarchs of the infant world, — with kings, 

The powerful of the earth, — the wise, the good, 

Fair forms, and hoary seers, of ages past, 

All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills, 

Rock-ribbed, and ancient as the sun ; the vales, 

Stretching in pensive quietness between ; 

The venerable woods ; rivers that move 

In majesty, and the complaining brooks, 

That make the meadows green ; and, poured round all, 

Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste, — 

Are but the solemn decorations all 

Of the great tomb of man ! The golden sun, 

The planets, all the infinite hosl of heaven, 

Are shining on the sad abodes of death, 

Through the still lapse of ages. 



132 SELECTIONS FOR READING. 

All that tread 
The globe are but a handful, to the tribes 
That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings 
Of morning, traverse Barca's desert sands, 
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods 
Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound 
Save its own dashings, — yet the dead are there ! 
And millions in those solitudes, since first 
The flight of years began, have laid them down 
In their last sleep, — the dead reign there alone ! 
So shalt thou rest ; and what if thou withdraw 
In silence from the living ; and no friend 
Take note of thy departure ? All that breathe 
Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh 
When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care 
Plod on, and each one, as before, will chase 
His favorite phantom ; yet all these shall leave 
Their mirth and their employments, and shall come 
And make their bed with thee. As the long train 
Of ages glide away, the sons of men — 
The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes 
In the full strength of years, matron and maid, 
And the sweet babe, and the gray-headed man — 
Shall, one by one, be gathered to thy side 
By those who in their turn shall follow them. 

So live, that when thy summons comes to join 
The innumerable caravan that moves 
To the pale realms of shade, where each shall take 
His chamber in the silent halls of death, 
Thou go not, like the quarry slave at night, 
Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed 
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave 
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch 
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. 

— [ William Cullen Bryant. 



RELATION OF MAN'S WANTS TO HIS HAPPINESS. 133 



Relation of Man's Wants to his Happiness. 

Man's grand distinction is his intellect, his mental capacity. It 
is this which renders him highly and peculiarly responsible to his 
Creator. It is this, on account of which the rule over other an- 
imals is established in his hands ; and it is this, mainly, which 
enables him to exercise dominion over the powers of nature, and 
to subdue them to himself. 

But it is, also, true that his own animal organization gives him 
superiority, and is among the most wonderful of the works of 
God on earth. It contributes to cause, as well as prove, his 
elevated rank in creation. 

His port is erect, his face toward heaven, and he is furnished 
with limbs which are not absolutely necessary to his support or 
locomotion, and which are at once powerful, flexible, capable of 
innumerable modes and varieties of action, and terminated by 
an instrument of wonderful, heavenly workmanship — the human 
hand. This marvelous physical conformation gives man the power 
of acting with great effect upon external objects, in pursuance of 
the suggestions of his understanding, and of applying the results 
of his reasoning power to his own purposes. 

Without this peculiar formation, he would not be man, with 
whatever sagacity he might be endowed. No bounteous grant of 
intellect, were it the pleasure of Heaven to make such grant, could 
raise any of the brute creation to an equality with the human race. 
Were it bestowed on the leviathan, he must remain, nevertheless, 
in the element where he alone could maintain his physical exist- 
ence. He would still be but the inelegant, misshapen inhabitant of 
the ocean, "wallowing unwieldy, enormous in his gait." Were 
the elephant made to possess it, it would but teach him the de- 
formity of his own structure ; the unloveliness of his frame, though 
"the hugest of things ;" his disability to act on external matter, 
and the degrading nature of his own physical wants, which lead 
him to the deserts, and give him for his favorite home the torrid 
plains of the tropics. 



134 SELECTIONS FOR READING. 

It was placing the King of Babylon sufficiently out of the rank 
of human beings, though he carried all his reasoning faculties with 
him, when he was sent, away to eat grass, like the ox. And this 
may properly suggest to our consideration, what is undeniably 
true, that there is hardly a greater blessing conferred on man than 
his natural wants. If he had wanted no more than the beasts, 
who can say how much more than they he would have attained ? 
Does he associate? Does he cultivate? Does he build? Does he 
navigate ? The original impulse to all these lies in his wants. It 
proceeds from the necessities of his condition, and from the efforts 
of unsatisfied desire. 

Every want, not of a low kind, physical as well as moral, which 
the human breast feels, and which brutes do not feel, and cannot 
feel, raises man by so much in the scale of existence, and is a 
clear proof, and a direct instance, of the favor of God toward 
His so much favored human offspring. If man had been so made 
as to have desired nothing, he would have wanted almost every 
thing worth possessing. — [Daniel Webster. 



Hamlet's Soliloquy. 

To be, or not to be, — that is the question : 

Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer 

The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, 

Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, 

And, by opposing end them? To die, — to sleep ; — 

To sleep ! perchance to dream ! — ay, there's the rub ; 

For in that sleep of death what dreams may come 

When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, 

Must give us pause: there's the respect 

That makes calamity of so long life ; 

For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, 

Th' oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, 

The pangs of despised love, the law's delay, 



TIME AND ETERNITY. 135 

The insolence of office, and the spurns 

That patient merit of th' unworthy takes, 

When he himself might his quietus*make 

With a bare bodkin? Who'd these fardels bear, 

To grunt and sweat under a weary life, 

But that the dread of something after death, — 

The undiscover'cl country, from whose bourn 

No traveller returns — puzzles the will, 

And makes us rather bear those ills we have, 

Than fly to others that we know not of ? 

Thus, conscience does make cowards of us all ; 

And thus, the native hue of resolution 

Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought ; 

And enterprises of great pith and moment, 

With this regard, their currents turn awry, 

And lose the name of action. 

—[William Shakspere. 



Time and Eternity. 

The bell strikes one : we take no note of time, 
But from its loss. To give it, then, a tongue, 
Is wise in man. As if an angel spoke, 
I feel the solemn sound. If heard aright, 
It is the knell of my departed hours : 
Where are they ? with the years beyond the flood ! 
It is the signal that demands despatch ; 
How much is to be done ! my hopes and fears 
Start up alarm' d, and o'er life's narrow verge 
Look down — on what ? a fathomless abyss ; 
A dread eternity ! how surely mine ! 
And can eternity belong to me, 
Poor pensioner on the bounties of an hour ? 

How poor, how rich, how abject, how august, 
How complicate, how wonderful, is man ! 



136 SELECTIONS FOR READING. 

How passing wonder He, who made him such ! 

Who centred in our make such strange extremes! 

From different natures marvellously mixt, 

Connection exquisite of distant worlds ! 

Distinguish' d link in being's endless chain! 

Midway from nothing to the Deity ! 

A beam ethereal, sullied, and absorpt ! 

Tho' sullied, and dishonor' d, still divine 

Dim miniature of greatness absolute ! 

An heir of glory ! a frail child of dust ! 

Helpless immortal ! insect infinite ! 

A worm ! a god ! — I tremble at myself, 

And in myself am lost ! at home a stranger, 

Thought wanders up and down, surpris'd, aghast, 

And wond'ring at her own : how reason reels ! 

O what a miracle to man is man, 

Triumphantly distress' d! what joy, what dread! 

Alternately transported, and alarm' d! 

What can preserve nry life ? or what destroy ? 

An angel's arm can't snatch me from the grave ; 

Legions of angels can't confine me there! 

— [Edward Young. 



Jacob's Ladder. 



Every discovery of later times has been more or less distinctly 
prophesied in the conceptions of the earlier world. It is only 
when those prophetic conceptions are viewed in the light of subse- 
quent developments that their full significance becomes perfectly 
defined. 

No other people have been more highly gifted than were the 
ancient Hebrews in this marvellous foresight. Often, when taken 
alone, their utterances are mere visions, seen as in a dream. 
Afterward — from the distance of centuries, it may be, —some 



Jacob's ladder. 137 

event or series of events will show them to be apt and beautiful 
symbols of phases of truth involved in the very nature of man. 

A more significant instance of this could scarcely be found than 
that of the Patriarch's vision of a ladder extending from earth to 
Heaven, and angels ascending and descending thereon. The whole 
of human history is the ladder, of which the foot rests in the 
merely plrysical nature of man, while the top extends to the utmost 
heights of the god-like in humanity. Nations and civilizations 
rise, culminate, decline, and fall. Individuals appear and disap- 
pear, now advancing, now retrograding, like angels ascending and 
descending in the scale of existence. But the round of one civili- 
zation is the heritage and starting-point of another, and each thus 
constitutes the realization of what had previously been (for this 
world) but an ideal step in the upward scale. The vision of long- 
ago was but a dimly discerned possibility which every onward step 
in the succeeding centuries of civilization — every invention, every 
discovery, every sincere word and work of man — has helped to 
realize. Learning what is true opens the gates of Paradise. Doing 
what is right opens the gates of Heaven. 

Nor is this to be said solely of the prosaic side of life. Truth 
is not merely prosaic. Indeed, the merely prosaic is untrue ; or, 
at best, but half true. All truth is beautiful, and beauty is but a 
phase or mode of the true. Thus we may say that Art itself, when 
viewed in its total compass, is but the splendid spectrum of the 
white light of truth shining through the prism of human sensibility. 

Literature may be styled a movable round in the ladder. Aside 
from and in spite of its deleterious phases, it is steadily lifting 
mankind to higher spheres of existence. Books are the records 
of the Past, the soul of the Present, and the prophesies of the 
Future. They are the telescopes that make the whole world vis- 
ible and enable us to see through the deepest mists of time. 

It thus appears that the earth affords a point of departure for 
upward flights. About its surface are gathered invisible vapors 
which, hy means of solar light and heat, unite with germs that 
presently unfold into beautiful, fragrant flowers. So too the 
human body is the earth side of a higher existence. Truth is the 



138 SELECTIONS FOR HEADING. 

invisible, vapory substance. The human soul is the germ. By 
means of the light of human intelligence and the warmth of 
human aspiration, substance and soul combine and blossom out 
at length into the perfected human spirit whose beauty can never 
fade. — [William M. Bryant. 



The Rainy Day. 



The day is cold, and dark, and dreary ; 
It rains, and the wind is never weary ; 
The vine still clings to the mouldering wall, 
But at every gust the dead leaves fall, 
And the day is dark and dreary. 

My life is cold, and dark, and dreary ; 
It rains, and the wind is never weary ; 
My thoughts still cling to the mouldering Past, 
But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast, 
And days are dark and dreary. 

Be still, sad heart ! and cease repining ; 
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining ; 
Thy fate is the common fate of all, 
Into each life some rain must fall, 
Some days must be dark and dreary. 

— [Henry W. Longfellow. 



The Quarrel of Brutus and Cassius. 

Cassius. That you have wrong' d me, doth appear in this; 
You have condemn' d and noted Lucius Pella, 
For taking bribes here of the Sardians ; 
Wherein my letters, praying on his side, 
Because I knew the man, were slighted off. 



THE QUARREL OF BRUTUS AND CASSIUS. 139 

Brutus. You wrong' d yourself to write in such a case. 

Cas. In such a time as this, it is not meet 
That every nice offense should bear his comment. 

Bru. Let me tell you, Cassius, you yourself 
Are much condemn' d to have an itching palm ; 
To sell and mart your offices for gold, 
To undeservers. 

Cas. I an itching palm ? 
You know that you are Brutus that speak this, 
Or, by the gods, this speech were else your last. 

Bru. The name of Cassius honors this corruption, 
And chastisement doth therefore hide his head. 

Cas. Chastisement ! 

Bru. Eemember March, the ides of March remember! 
Did not great Julius bleed for justice' sake ? 
What villain touched his body, that did stab, 
And not for justice? — What! shall one of us, 
That struck the foremost man of all this world, 
But for supporting robbers, — shall we now 
Contaminate our fingers with base bribes, 
And sell the mighty space of our large honors, 
For so much trash as may be grasped thus ? 
I had rather be a dog, and bay the moon, 
Than such a Roman. 

Cas. Brutus, bait not me, 
I'll not endure it: you forget yourself, 
To hedge me in ; I am a soldier, I, 
Older in practice, abler than yourself 
To make conditions. 

Bru. G-o to ! you are not, Cassius. 

Cas. I am. 

Bru. I say you are not. 

Cas. Urge me no more, I shall forget myself : 
Have mind upon your health ; tempt me no further. 

Bru. Away, slight man ! 

Cas. Is' t possible? 



140 SELECTIONS FOR HEADING-. 

Bru. Hear me, for I will speak. 
Must I give way and room to your rash choler ? 
Shall I be frighted, when a madman stares ? 

Cas. O ye gods ! ye gods ! Must I endure all this ? 

Bru. All "this? ay, more : Fret, till your proud heart break ; 
Go, show your slaves how choleric 3^011 are, 
And make your bondmen tremble. Must I budge ? 
Must I observe you ? Must I stand and crouch 
Under your testy humor ? By the gods, 
You shall digest the venom of your spleen, 
Though it do split you ; for, from this day forth 
I'll use you for my mirth, yea, for my laughter, 
When you are waspish. 

Cas. Is it come to this ? 

Bru. You say you are a better soldier : 
Let it appear so ; make your vaunting true, 
And it shall please me well : For mine own part, 
I shall be glad to learn of noble men. 

Cas. You wrong me every way, you wrong me, Brutus 
I said an elder soldier, not a better : 
Did I say better? 

Bru. If you did, I care not. 

Cas. When Caesar liv'd, he durst not thus have mov'd me. 

Bru. Peace, peace ! you durst not so have tempted him. 

Cas. I durst not? 

Bru. No. 

Cas. What ! durst not tempt him ? 

Bru. For jour life you durst not. 

Cas. Do not presume too much upon my love ; 
I may do that I shall be sorry for. 

Bru. You have done that you should be sorry for. 
There is no terror, Cassius, in your threats ; 
For I am arm'd so strong in honesty, 
That they pass by me as the idle wind, 
Which I respect not. I did send to you 
For certain sums of gold, which you denied me ; 



THE QUARREL OF BRUTUS AND CASSIUS. 141 

For I can raise no money by vile means : 

By Heaven, I had rather coin my heart, 

And drop my blood for drachmas, than to wring 

From the hard hands of peasants their vile trash, 

By any indirection. I did send 

To you for gold to pay my legions, 

Which you denied me : Was that done like Cassius ? 

Should I have answer' d Caius Cassius so? 

When Marcus Brutus grows so covetous, 

To lock such rascal counters from his friends, 

Be ready, gods, with all your thunderbolts, 

Dash him to pieces ! 

Cas. I denied you not. 

Bru. You did. 

Cas. I did not : he was but a fool 
That brought my answer back. — Brutus hath riv'd my heart: 
A friend should bear his friend's infirmities, 
But Brutus makes mine greater than they are. 

Bru. I do not, till you practise them on me. 

Cas. You love me not. 

Bru. I do not like your faults. 

Cas. A friendly eye could never see such faults. 
. Bru. A flatterer's would not, though they do appear 
As huge as high Olympus. 

Cas. Come, Antony and young Octavius, come, 
Revenge yourselves alone on Cassius, 
For Cassius is aweary of the world : 
Hated by one he loves ; brav'd by his brother ; 
Check' d like a bondman ; all his faults observ'd, 
Set in a note-book, learn' d and conn'd by rote, 
To cast into my teeth. O, I could weep 
My spirit from my eyes ! — There is my dagger, 
And here my naked breast ; within, a heart 
Dearer than Plutus' mine, richer than gold : 
If that thou be'st a Roman, take it forth ; 
I, that denied thee gold, will give my heart. 



142 SELECTIONS FOR READING. 

Strike as thou didst at Caesar ; for I know, 

When thou didst hate him worst, thou lov'dst him better 

Than ever thou lov'dst Cassius. 

Bru. Sheathe your dagger : 
Be angry when you will, it shall have scope ; 
Do what you will, dishonor shall be humor. 
O Cassius ! you are yoked with a lamb 
That carries anger, as the flint bears fire ; 
Who, much enforced, shows a hasty spark, 
And straight is cold again. 

Cas. Hath Cassius liv'd 
To be but mirth and laughter to his Brutus, 
When grief, and blood ill-temper' d vexeth him? 

Bru. When I spoke, that, I was ill-temper' d too. 

Cas. Do you confess so much? Give me your hand. 

Bru. And my heart too. 

Cas. O Brutus ! — 

Bru. What's the matter? 

Cas. Have you not love enough to bear with me, 
When that rash humor which my mother gave me 
Makes me forgetful ? 

Bru. Yes, Cassius ; and, henceforth, 
When you are over-earnest with your Brutus, 
He'll think your mother chides, and leave you so. 

— [William Shakspere. 



Apostrophe to the Ocean. 

Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean, — roll ! 

Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain ; 
Man marks the earth with ruin — his control 

Stops with the shore ; — upon the watery plain 

The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain 
A shadow of man's ravage, save his own, 

When, for a moment, like a drop of rain, 



AN APOSTROPHE TO THE OCEAN. 143 

He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, 
"Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown. 

The armaments which thunderstrike the walls 

Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake, 
And monarchs tremble in their capitals, 

The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make 

Their clay creator the vain title take 
Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war ; 

These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake, 

They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar 

Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar. 

Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee ; — 
Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, — what are they? 

Thy waters washed them power when they were free, 
And many a tyrant since : their shores obey 
The stranger, slave, or savage ; their decay 

Has dried up realms to deserts : — not so thou, 
Unchangeable, save to thy wild waves' play, — 

Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow — 
Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now. 

Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form 

Glasses itself in tempests : in all time, 
Calm or convulsed — in breeze, or gale, or storm, 

Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime 

Dark heaving ; — boundless, endless, and sublime, — 
The image of Eternity — the throne 

Of the Invisible ; even from out thy slime 
The monsters of the deep are made ; each zone 
Obeys thee : thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone. 

And I have loved thee, Ocean ! and my joy 
Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be 

Borne, like thy bubbles, onward : from a boy 
I wantoned with thy breakers, — they to me 



144 SELECTIONS FOR READING-. 

Were a delight ; and if the freshening sea 
Made them a terror, 'twas a pleasing fear ; 

For I was, as it were, a child of thee, 
And trusted to thy billows far and near, 
And laid my hand upon thy mane, as I do here. 

— [Lord Byron. 



The Character of Columbus. 

In Columbus were singularly combined the practical and the 
poetical. His mind had grasped all kinds of knowledge, whether 
procured by study or observation, which bore upon his theories. 
If some of his conclusions were erroneous, they were at least 
ingenious and splendid ; and their error resulted from the clouds 
which still hung over his peculiar path of enterprise. His own 
discoveries enlightened the ignorance of the age, guided conjec- 
ture to certainty, and dispelled that very darkness with which he 
had been obliged to struggle. That ardent and enthusiastic imag- 
ination threw a magnificence over his whole course of thought. 
Herrera intimates that he had a talent for poetry, and some slight 
traces of it are on record in the book of prophecies which he pre- 
sented to the Catholic sovereigns. But his poetical temperament is 
discernible throughout all his writings and in all his actions. It 
spread a golden and glorious world around him, and tinged every 
thing with its own gorgeous colors. It betra3^ed him into vision- 
ary speculations, which subjected him to the sneers and cavillings 
of men of cooler and safer, but more grovelling minds. 

He was decidedly a visionary, but a visionary of an uncommon 
and successful kind. The manner in which his ardent, imaginative, 
and mercurial nature was controlled by a powerful judgment, and 
directed by an acute sagacity, is the most extraordinary feature in 
his character. Thus governed, his imagination, instead of ex- 
hausting itself in idle flights, lent aid to his judgment, and enabled 
him to form conclusions at which common minds would never have 
arrived, — nay, which they could not perceive when pointed out. 



RESIGNATION. 145 

With all the visionary fervor of his imagination, its fondest 
dreams fell short of the reality. He died in ignorance of the real 
grandeur of. his discovery. Until his last breath he entertained 
the idea that he had merely opened a new way to the old resorts of 
opulent commerce, and had discovered some of the wild regions 
of the East. He supposed Hispaniola to be the ancient Ophir 
which had been visited by the ships of Solomon, and that Cuba 
and Terra Firma were but remote parts of Asia. What visions of 
glory would have broken upon his mind, could he have known that 
he had indeed discovered a new continent equal to the whole of 
the old world in magnitude, and separated by two vast oceans 
from all the earth hitherto known by civilized man! And how 
would his magnanimous spirit have been consoled, amidst the 
afflictions of age and the cares of penury, the neglect of a fickle 
public, and the injustice of an ungrateful king, could he have an- 
ticipated the splendid empires which were to spread over the beau- 
tiful world he had discovered ; and the nations and tongues and 
languages which were to fill its lands with his renown, and to 
revere and bless his name to the latest posterity \— [Washington 
Irving. 



Resignation. 



There is no flock, however watched and tended, 

But one dead lamb is there ! 
There is no fireside, howsoe'r defended, 

But has one vacant chair ! 

The air is full of farewells to the dying, 

And mournings for the dead ; 
The heart of Rachel, for her children crying, 

Will not be comforted ! 

Let us be patient ! These severe afflictions 
Not from the ground arise, 
10 



146 SELECTIONS FOR READING. 

But oftentimes celestial benedictions 
Assume this dark disguise. 

We see but dimly through the mists and vapors ; 

Amid these earthly damps 
What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers 

May be heaven's distant lamps. 

There is no Death ! What seems so is transition : 

This life of mortal breath 
Is but a suburb of the life elysian, 

Whose portal we call Death. 

She is not dead, — the child of our affection, — 

But gone unto that school 
Where she no longer needs our poor protection, 

And Christ himself doth rule. 

In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion, 

By guardian angels led, 
Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution 

She lives whom we call dead. 

Day after day we think what she is doing 

In those bright realms of air ; 
Year after year, her tender steps pursuing, 

Behold her grown more fair. 

Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken 

The bond which nature gives, 
Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken, 

May reach her where she lives. 

Not as a child shall we again behold her ; 

For when with raptures wild 
In our embraces we again enfold her, 

She will not be a child : 



ASTRONOMY. 147 

But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion, 

Clothed with celestial grace ; 
And beautiful with all the soul's expansion 

Shall we behold her face. 

And though, at times, impetuous with emotion 

And anguish long suppressed, 
The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean, 

That cannot be at rest, — 

We will be patient, and assuage the feeling 

We may not wholly stay ; 
By silence sanctifying, not concealing, 

The grief that must have way. 

— [Henry W. Longfellow. 



Astronomy. 

* * * Much however, as we are indebted to our observa- 
tories for elevating our conceptions of the heavenly bodies, they 
present, even to the unaided sight, scenes of glory which words 
are too feeble to describe. 

I had occasion, a few weeks since, to take the early train from 
Providence to Boston ; and for this purpose rose at two o' clock in 
the morning. Every thing around was wrapt in darkness and 
hushed in silence, broken only by what seemed at that hour the 
unearthly clank and rush of the train. It was a mild, serene, 
midsummer's night, — the sky was without a cloud, — the winds 
were whist. The moon, then in the last quarter, had just risen, 
and the stars shone with a spectral lustre but little affected by her 
presence. Jupiter, two hours high, was the herald of the day; 
the Pleiades, just above the horizon, shed their sweet influence in 
the east ; Lyra sparkled near, the zenith ; Andromeda veiled her 
newly-discovered glories from the naked eye, in the south; the 
steady pointers, far beneath the pole, looked meekly up from the 
depths of the north, to their sovereign. 



148 SELECTIONS FOR READING. 

Such was the glorious spectacle as I entered the train. As we 
proceeded, the timid approach of daylight became more per- 
ceptible ; the intense blue of the sky began to soften ; the smaller 
stars, like little children, went first to rest ; the sister-beams of the 
Pleiades soon melted together ; but the bright constellations of 
the west and north remained unchanged. Steadily the wondrous 
transfiguration went on. Hands of angels, hidden from mortal 
eyes, shifted the scenery of the heavens ; the glories of night dis- 
solved into the glories of the dawn. The blue sky now turned 
more softly gray ; the great watch-stars shut up their holy eyes ; 
the east began to kindle. Faint streaks of purple soon blushed 
along the sky; the whole celestial concave was filled with the 
inflowing tides of the morning fight, which came pouring down 
from above in one great ocean of radiance ; till at length, as we 
reached the Bine Hills, a flash of purple fire blazed out from above 
the horizon, and turned the dewy tear-drops of flower and leaf 
into rubies and diamonds. In a few seconds, the everlasting gates 
of the morning were thrown wide open, and the lord of day, 
arrayed in glories too severe for the gaze of man, began his state. 
* * * — [Edward Everett. 



What's Hallowed Ground? 

What's hallowed ground? Has earth a clod 
Its Maker meant should not be trod 
By man, the image of his God, 

Erect and free, . . . 
Unscourged by superstition's rod 

To bow the knee ? 

That's hallowed ground — where, mourned and missed, 
The lips repose our love has kissed ; — 
But where's their memory's mansion? Is't 
Yon churchyard's bowers? 



what's hallowed ground. 149 

No ! in ourselves their souls exist, 
A part of ours. 

What hallows ground where heroes sleep ? 
'Tis not the sculptured piles you heap ! 
In dews that heavens far distant weep 

Their turf may bloom ; 
Or Genii twine beneath the deep 

Their coral tomb. 

But strew his ashes to the wind 

Whose sword or voice has saved mankind, 

And is he dead, whose glorious mind 

Lifts thine on high ? 
To live in hearts we leave behind 

Is not to die. 

Is 't death to fall for Freedom's right? 
He 's dead alone that lacks her light ! 
And murder sullies in Heaven's sight 

The sword he draws : — 
What can alone ennoble fight? 

A noble cause ! 

Give that ; and welcome War to brace 

Her drums ! and rend heaven's reeking space ! 

The colors planted face to face, 

The charging cheer, 
Though Death's pale horse lead on the chase, 

Shall still be dear. 

And place our trophies where men kneel 
To Heaven ! — but Heaven rebukes my zeal ! 
The cause of Truth and human weal, 

O God above ! 
Transfer it from the sword's appeal 

To Peace and Love. 



150 SELECTIONS FOR READING. 

Peace, Love ! the cherubim, that join 
Their spread wings o'er Devotion's shrine, 
Prayers sound in vain, and temples shine, 

Where they are not, — 
The heart alone can make divine 

Religion's spot. 

What' s hallowed ground ? 'Tis what gives birth 
To sacred thoughts in souls of worth ! — 
Peace ! Independence ! Truth ! go forth 

Earth's compass round ; 
And your high priesthood shall make earth 

All hallowed ground ! 

— \_Tlwmas Campbell. 



Winter in London. 



The streets were empty. Pitiless cold had driven all who had 
the shelter of a roof to their homes ; and the north-east blast 
seemed to howl in triumph above the untrodden snow. Winter 
was at the heart of all things. The wretched, dumb with exces- 
sive misery, suffered, in stupid resignation, the tyranny of the 
season. Human blood stagnated in the breast of want; and 
death in that despairing hour, losing its terrors, looked in the 
eyes of many a wretch, a sweet deliverer. It was a time when 
the very poor, barred from the commonest things of earth, take 
strange counsel with themselves, and, in the deep humility of des- 
titution, believe they are the burden and the offal of the world. 

It was a time when the easy, comfortable man, touched with 
the finest sense of human suffering, gives from his abundance ; 
and, whilst bestowing, feels almost ashamed that, with such wide- 
spread misery circled round him, he has all things fitting and all 
things grateful. The smitten spirit asks wherefore he is not of 
the multitude of wretchedness ; demands to know for what especial 
excellence he is promoted above the thousand thousand starving 



THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS. 151 

creatures : in his very tenderness for misery, tests his privilege for 
exemption from a woe that withers manhood in man, bowing him 
downward to the brute. And so questioned, this man gives in 
modesty of spirit — in very thankfulness of soul. His alms are 
not cold, formal charities ; but reverent sacrifices to his suffering 
brother. 

It was a time when selfishness hugs itself in its own warmth ; 
and with no other thoughts than of its pleasant possessions ; all 
made pleasanter, sweeter, by the desolation around. When the 
mere worldling rejoices the more in his warm chamber, because it 
is so bitter cold without ; when he eats and drinks with whetted 
appetite, because he hears of destitution, prowling like a wolf 
around his well-barred house ; when, in fine, he bears his every 
comfort about him with the pride of a conqueror. A time when 
such a man sees in the misery of his fellow-beings nothing save 
his own victory of fortune — his own successes in a suffering 
world. To such a man, the poor are but the tattered slaves that 
grace his triumph. 

It was a time, too, when human nature often shows its true 
divinity, and with misery like a garment clinging to it, forgets its 
wretchedness in sympathy with suffering. A time, when in the 
cellars and garrets of the poor are acted scenes which make the 
noblest heroism of life ; which prove the immortal texture of the 
human heart, not wholly seared by the branding-iron of the tor- 
turing hours. A time when in want, in anguish, in throes of 
mortal agony, some seed is sown that bears a flower in heaven. — 
[Douglas Jerrold. 



The Bridge of Sigh?. 

One more unfortunate, 
Weary of breath, 
Rashly importunate, 
Gone to her death ! 



152 SELECTIONS FOR READING. 

Take her up tenderly, 
Lift her with care ! 
Fashioned so slenderly, 
Young, and so fair ! 

Look at her garments 
Clinging like cerements, 
Whilst the wave constantly 
Drips from her clothing ; 
Take her up instantly, 
Loving;, not loathing; ! 

Touch her not scornfully ! 
Think of her mournfully, 
Gently and humanly, — 
Not of the stains of her ; 
All that remains of her 
Now is pure womanly. 

Make no deep scrutiny 
Into her mutiny, 
Rash and undutif ul ; 
Past all dishonor, 
Death has left on her 
Only the beautiful. 



Alas ! for the rarity 
Of Christian charity 
Under the sun ! 
Oh, it was pitiful ! 
Near a whole city full, 
Home she had none. 

Sisterly, brotherly, 
Fatherly, motherly 
Feelings had changed,- 



THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS. 153 

Love, by harsh evidence, 
Thrown from its eminence ; 
Even God's providence 
Seeming estranged. 

Where the lamps quiver 

So far in the river, 

With many a light 

From window and casement, 

From garret to basement, 

She stood with amazement, 

Houseless by night. 

The bleak wind of March 
Made her tremble and shiver ; 
But not the dark arch, 
Or the black flowing river ; 
Mad from life's history, 
Glad to death's mystery, 
Swift to be hurled — 
Anywhere, anywhere 
Out of the world ! 

In she plunged boldly, — 
No matter how coldly 
The rough river ran — 
Over the brink of it ! 
Picture it, — think of it ! 
Dissolute man ! 
Lave in it, drink of it, 
Then, if you can ! 

Take her up tenderly, 
Lift her with care ! 
Fashioned so slenderly, 
Young, and so fair ! 



154 SELECTIONS FOE. READING. 

Perishing gloomily, 
Spurred by contumely, 
Cold inhumanity, 
Burning insanity, 
Into her rest ! 
Cross her hands humbly, 
As if praying dumbly, 
Over her breast ! 



Owning her weakness, 
Her evil behavior, 
And leaving, with meekness, 
Her sins to her Saviour ! 

— [Tliomxis Hood. 



Degeneracy of the Athenians. 

Such, O men of Athens ! were your ancestors : so glorious in 
the eyes of the world ; so bountiful and munificent to their coun- 
try ; so sparing, so modest, so self-denying to themselves. What 
resemblance can we find, in the present generation, to those great 
men? At the time when your ancient competitors have left you a 
clear stage, when the Lacedemonians are disabled, the Thebans 
employed in troubles of their own, when no other state whatever is 
in a condition to rival or molest you — in short, when you are at 
full liberty, when you have the opportunity and the power to 
become once more the sole arbiters of Greece, — you^permit, 
patiently, whole provinces to be wrested from you ; you lavish the 
public money in scandalous and obscure uses ; you suffer your 
allies to perish in time of peace, whom you preserved in time of 
war ; and, to sum up all, you yourselves, by your mercenary court, 
and servile resignation to the will and pleasure of designing, insid- 
ious leaders, abet, encourage, and strengthen the most dangerous 
and formidable of your enemies. 

Yes, Athenians, I repeat it, you yourselves are the contrivers of 



ODE TO PEACE. 155 

your own ruin. Lives there a man who has confidence enough to 
deny it? Let him arise and assign, if he can, any other cause for 
the success and prosperity of Philip. "But," you reply, "what 
Athens may have lost in reputation abroad she has gained in 
splendor at home. Was there ever a greater appearance of pros- 
perity and plenty ? Is not the city enlarged ? Are not the streets 
better paved, houses repaired and beautified ? ' ' Away with such 
trifles! Shall I be paid with counters? An old square new 
vamped-up ! a fountain ! an aqueduct ! Are these acquisitions to 
boast of? 

Cast your eyes upon the magistrate under whose ministry you 
boast these precious improvements. Behold the despicable crea- 
ture, raised all at once from dirt to opulence, from the lowest 
obscurity to the highest honors. Have not some of these upstarts 
built private houses and seats vying with the most sumptuous of 
our public palaces ? And how have their fortunes and their power 
increased, but as the commonwealth has been ruined and impover- 
ished? — \_Demosthenes. 



Ode to Peace. 



Angel of Peace, thou hast wandered too long ! 

Spread thy white wings to the sunshine of love ! 
Come while our voices are blended in song, — 

Fly to our ark like the storm-beaten dove, 
Fly to our ark on the wings of the dove, 

Speed o'er the far-sounding billows of song, 
Crowned with thine olive-leaf garland of love ; 

Angel of Peace, thou hast waited too long ! 

Brothers, we meet on this altar of thine, 

Mingling the gifts we have gathered for thee, 

Sweet with the odors of myrtle and pine, 

Breeze of the prairie and breath of the sea ! 

Meadow and mountain, and forest and sea ! 



156 SELECTIONS FOR READING. 

Sweet is the fragrance of myrtle and pine, 
Sweeter the incense we offer to thee, 

Brothers, once more round this altar of thine ! 

Angels of Bethlehem, answer the strain ! 

Hark ! a new birth-song is filling the sky ! 
Loud as the storm- wind that tumbles the main, 

Bid the full breath of the organ reply ; 
Let the loud tempest of voices reply ; 

Roll its long surge like the earth-shaking main ! 
Swell the vast song till it mounts to the sky ! 

Angels of Bethlehem, echo the strain ! 

— [Oliver Wendell Holmes. 



Morning Hymn of Adam and Eve. 

These are thy glorious works, Parent of good, 

Almighty, thine this universal frame, 

Thus wondrous fair ; thyself how wondrous then ! 

Unspeakable, who sitt'st above these heavens, 

To us invisible, or dimly seen 

In these thy lowest works ; yet these declare 

Thy goodness beyond thought, and power divine. 

Speak ye who best can tell, ye sons of light, 
Angels, for ye behold him, and with songs 
And choral symphonies, day without night, 
Circle his throne rejoicing ; ye in heaven, 
On earth join all ye creatures to extol 
Him first, him last, him midst, and without end. 

Fairest of stars, last in the train of night, 

If better thou belong not to the dawn, 

Sure pledge of day, that crownst the smiling morn 

With thy bright circlet, praise him in thy sphere, 

While day arises, that sweet hour of prime. 



MORNIN& HYMN OF ADAM AND EVE. 157 

Thou sun, of this great world both eye and soul, 

Acknowledge him thy greater, sound his praise 

In thy eternal course, both when thou climb' st, 

And when high noon hast gain'd, and when thou fall'st. 

Moon, that now meet'st the orient sun, now fly'st, 
With the fix'd stars, fix'd in their orb that flies, 
And ye five other wand' ring fires, that move 
In mystic dance not without song, resound 
His praise, who out of darkness call'd up light. 

Ye mists and exhalations that now rise 
From hill or steaming lake, dusky or gray, 
Till the sun paint your fleecy skirts with gold, 
In honor to the world's great Author rise, 
Whether to deck with clouds the uncolor'd sky, 
Or wet the thirsty earth with falling showers, 
Rising or falling still advance his praise. 

His praise, ye winds that from four quarters blow, 
Breathe soft or loud ; and wave your tops, ye pines, 
With every plant, in sign of worship wave. 
Fountains, and ye that warble, as ye flow, 
Melodious murmurs, warbling tune his praise : 
Join voices, all ye living souls : ye birds, 
That singing up to heaven-gate ascend, 
Bear on your wings and in your notes his praise ; 

Ye that in waters glide, and ye that walk 
The earth, and stately tread, or lowly creep ; 
Witness if I be silent, morn or even, 
To hill or valley, fountain or fresh shade, 
Made vocal by my song, and taught his praise. 
Hail universal Lord, be bounteous still 
To give us only good ; and if the night 
Have gather' d aught of evil, or conceal' d, 
Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark. 

— [John Milton. 



158 SELECTIONS FOR READING. 



Adventure of Christian in Doubting Castle. 

Now there was, not far from the place where they lay, a castle, 
called Doubting Castle, the owner whereof was Giant Despair, and 
it was in his grounds they now were sleeping ; wherefore he, get- 
ting up in the morning early, and walking up and down in his 
fields, caught Christian and Hopeful asleep in his grounds. Then, 
with a grim and surly voice, he bid them awake, and asked them 
whence they were, and what they did in his grounds ? They told 
him they were pilgrims and that they had lost their way. Then 
said the giant : " You have this night trespassed on me, by tramp- 
ling and lying on my ground, therefore, you must go along with 
me." So they were forced to go, because he was stronger than 
they. They also had but little to say, for they knew themselves 
in fault. The giant, therefore, drove them before him, and put 
them into his castle, in a very dark dungeon. 

Here they lay from Wednesday morning till Saturday night, 
without one bit of bread, or drop of drink, or light, or any to ask 
how they did ; they were, therefore, here in evil case, and were 
far from friends and acquaintance. Now, in this place Christian 
had double sorrow ; because it was through his unadvised haste 
that they were brought into this distress. 

Well, toward the evening, the giant goes down into the dungeon 
again ; when he came there he found them alive ; and truly, alive 
was all ; for now, what for want of bread and water, and by reason 
of the wounds they received when he beat them, they could do 
little but breathe. But, I say, he found them alive ; at which he 
fell into a grievous rage, and told them it should be worse with 
them than if they had never been born. 

******** 

Well, on Saturday, about midnight, they began to pray, and 
continued in prayer till almost break of day. Now, a little 
before it was day, good Christian, as one half amazed, broke out 
in this passionate speech: " What a fool," quoth he, " am I thus 
to lie in a stinking dungeon, when I may as well walk at liberty ! 
I have a key in nry bosom, called Promise, that will, I am per- 



THE CLOUD. 159 

suaded, open any lock in Doubting Castle." Then said Hopeful: 
"That's good news, good brother ; pluck it out of thy bosom and 
try." 

Then Christian pulled it out of his bosom, and began to try at 
the dungeon-door, whose bolt, as he turned the key, gave back, 
and the door flew open with ease, and Christian and Hopeful both 
came out. Then he went to the outer door that leads into the 
castle-yard, and with his key opened that door also. After, he 
went to the iron gate, for that must be opened too ; but that lock 
went very hard, yet the key did open it. Then they thrust open 
the door to make their escape with speed, but that gate, as it 
opened, made such a cracking that it waked Giant Despair, who, 
hastily rising to pursue his prisoners, felt his limbs fail ; for his 
fits took him again, so that he could by no means go after them. 
Then they went on, and came to the king's highway, and so were 
safe ; because they were out of his jurisdiction. 

Now, when they were gone over the stile, they began to con- 
trive with themselves what they should do at that stile to prevent 
those that should come after from falling into the hands of Giant 
Despair. So they consented to erect there a pillar, and to engrave 
upon the stile thereof this sentence : " Over this stile is the way to 
Doubting Castle, which is kept by Giant Despair, who despiseth 
the King of the Celestial Country, and seeks to destroy his holy 
pilgrims." Many, therefore, that followed after, read what was 
written, and escaped the danger. — [John Bmiyan. 



The Cloud. 



I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers, 
From the seas and the streams ; 

I bear light shade for the leaves when laid 
In their noon-day dreams. 

From my wings are shaken the dews that waken 
The sweet birds every one, 



160 SELECTIONS FOR READING. 

When rocked to rest on their mother's breast, 

As she dances about the sun. 
I wield the flail of the lashing hail, 

And whiten the green plains under, 
And then again I dissolve it in rain, 

And laugh as I pass in thunder. 

I sift the snow on the mountains below, 

And their great pines groan aghast ; 
And all the night 'tis my pillow white, 

While I sleep in the arms of the blast. 
Sublime on the towers of my skyey bowers, 

Lightning, my pilot, sits, 
In a cavern under is fettered the thunder, 

It struggles and howls by fits ; 
Over earth and ocean with gentle motion, 

This pilot is guiding me, 
Lured by the love of the genii that move 

In the depths of the purple sea ; 
Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills, 

Over the lakes and the plains, 
Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream, 

The Spirit he loves remains ; 
And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile, 

Whilst he is dissolving in rains. 

The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes, 

And his burning plumes outspread, 
Leaps on the back of my sailing rack, 

When the morning star shines dead. 
As on the jag of a mountain crag, 

Which an earthquake rocks and swings, 
An eagle alit one moment may sit 

In the light of its golden wings. 
And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath, 

Its ardors of rest and of love, 



THE CLOUD. 161 

And the crimson pall of eve may fall 

From the depth of heaven above, 
With wings folded I rest, on mine airy nest, 

As still as a brooding dove. 

That orbed maiden, with white fire laden, 

Whom mortals call the moon, 
Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor, 

By the midnight breezes strewn ; 
And wherever the beat of her unseen feet, 

Which only the angels hear, 
May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof, 

The stars peep behind her and peer ; 
And I laugh to see them whirl and flee, 

Like a swarm of golden bees, 
When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent, 

Till the calm river, lakes, and seas, 
Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high, 

Are each paved with the moon and these. 

I bind the sun's throne with a*burriing zone, 

And the moon's with a girdle of pearl ; 
The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim, 

When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl. 
From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape, 

Over a torrent sea, 
Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof, 

The mountains its columns be. 
The triumphal arch through which I march, 

With hurricane, fire, and snow, 
When the powers of the air are chained to my chair, 

Is the million- colored bow ; 
The sphere-fire above its soft colors wove, 

While the moist earth was laughing below. 

I am the daughter of the earth and water, 

And the nursling of the sky : 

ll 



162 SELECTIONS FOR READING. 

I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores ; 

I change, but I cannot die. 
For after the rain, when with never a stain, 

The pavilion of heaven is bare, 
And the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams, 

Build up the blue dome of air, 
I silently laugh at my own cenotaph, 

I arise and unbuild it again. — [Percy B. Shelley. 



The Destruction of Sennacherib. 

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, 
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold ; 
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, 
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. 

Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green, 
That host with their banners at sunset were seen ; 
Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown, 
That host on the morrow lay withered and strown. 

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, 
And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed ; 
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill, 
And their hearts but once heaved, and forever grew still ! 

And there lay the steed with his nostrils all wide, 
But through them there rolled not the breath of his pride 
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, 
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. 

And there lay the rider distorted and pale, 
With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail ; 
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, 
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. 



MRS. CAUDLE'S VIEWS IN REGARD TO MASONRY. 163 

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, 



And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal ; 

And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword, 

Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord ! 

— [Lord Byron. 



Mrs. Caudle's Views in Regard to Masonry. 

Now, Mr. Caudle, — Mr. Caudle, I say, — oh! you can't be 
asleep already, I know ! Now, what I mean to say is this : there's 
no use, none at all, in our having any disturbance about the mat- 
ter; but at last my mind's made up, Mr. Caudle, — I shall leave 
you. Either I know all you've been doing to-night, or to-morrow 
morning I quit the house. No, no. There's an end of the mar- 
ried state, I think, — an end of all confidence between man and 
wife, — if a husband's to have secrets and keep 'em all to himself. 
Pretty secrets they must be, when his own wife can't know 'em. 
Not fit for any decent person to know, I'm sure, if that's the case. 
Now, Caudle, don't let us quarrel, there's a good soul: tell me, 
what's it all about? A pack of nonsense, I dare say: still, — not 
that I care much about it, — still, I should like to know. There's 
a dear. Eh? Oh, don't tell me there's nothing in it; I know 
better. I'm not a fool, Mr. Caudle ; I know there's a good deal 
in it. Now, Caudle, just tell me a little bit of it. I'm sure I'd 
tell you anything. You know I would. Well ? 

And you're not going to let me know the secret, eh? You 
mean to say — 3 r ou're not? Now, Caudle, you know it's a hard 
matter to put me in a passion, — not that I care about the secret 
itself, — no : I wouldn't give a button to know it ; for it's all non- 
sense, I'm sure. It isn't the secret I care about ; it's the slight, 
Mr. Caudle; it's the studied insult that a man pays to his wife 
when he thinks of going through the world keeping something to 
himself which he won't let her know. Man and wife one, indeed ! 
I should like to know how that can be when a man's a mason, — 
when he keeps a secret that sets him and his wife apart? Ha! 



164 SELECTIONS FOR READING. 

you men make the laws, and so you take good care to have all 
the best of them to yourselves ; otherwise a woman ought to be 
allowed a divorce when a man becomes a mason, — when he's got 
a sort of corner- cupboard in his heart, a secret place in his mind, 
that his poor wife isn't allowed to rummage. 

Was there ever such a man ? A man, indeed ! A brute ! — 
yes, Mr. Caudle, an unfeeling, brutal creature, when you might 
oblige me, and you won't. I'm sure I don't object to your being 
a mason ; not at ail, Caudle ; I dare say it's a very good thing : I 
dare say it is : it's only your making a secret of it that vexes me. 
But you'll tell me, — you'll tell your own Margaret? — You won't f 
— You're a wretch! Mr. Caudle. — [Douglas Jerrold. 



Catiline's Defiance. 

Conscript Fathers : 
I do not rise to waste the night in words ; — 
Let that Plebeian talk ; 'tis not my trade ; 
But here I stand for right, — let him show proofs, — 
For Roman right ; though none, it seems, dare stand 
To take their share with me. Ay, cluster there, — 
Cling to your master, judges, Romans', slaves ! 
His charge is false ; — I dare him to his proofs. 
You have my answer. Let my actions speak ! 

But this I will avow, — that I have scorned, 
And still do scorn, to hide my sense of wrong : 
Who brands me on the forehead, breaks my sword. 
Or lays the bloody scourge upon my back, 
Wrongs me not half so much as he who shuts 
The gates of honor on me, — turning out 
The Roman from his birthright ; and for what ? 
To fling your offices to every slave ! 
Vipers, that creep where man disdains to climb ; 



Catiline's defiance. 165 

And, having wound their loathsome track to the top 
Of this' huge, mouldering monument of Rome, 
Hang hissing at the nobler men below ! 

Come, consecrated Lictors, from your thrones ; 
Fling down your sceptres ; take the rod and axe ; 
And make the murder as you make the law ! 

"Banished from Rome ! " What's banished, but set free 
From daily contact of the things I loathe ? 
' ' Tried and convicted traitor ! ' ' Who says this ? 
Who'll prove it, at his peril, on my head? 
" Banished ! " I thank you for't. It breaks my chain : 
I held some slack allegiance till this hour ; 
But now my sword's my own. Smile on, my lords ; 
I scorn to count what feelings, withered hopes, 
Strong provocations, bitter, burning wrongs, 
I have within my heart's hot cells shut up, 
To leave you to your lazy dignities. 
But here I stand and scoff you ! here I fling 
Hatred and full defiance in your face ! 
Your Consul's merciful, — for this, all thanks : 
He dares not touch a hair of Catiline ! 

' ' Traitor ! " I go ; but, I return. This — trial ! 

Here I devote your Senate ! I've had wrongs 

To stir a fever in the blood of age, 

Or make the infant sinews strong as steel. 

This day's the birth of sorrow. This hour's work 

Will breed proscriptions ! Look to your hearths, my lords ! 

For there, henceforth, shall sit, for household gods, 

Shapes hot from Tartarus ! — all shames and crimes : 

Wan Treachery, with his thirsty dagger drawn ; 

Suspicion, poisoning his brother's cup ; 

Naked Rebellion, with the torch and axe, 

Making his wild sport of your blazing thrones ; — 

Till anarchy comes down on you like night, 

And massacre seals Rome's eternal grave. 



166 SELECTIONS FOR READING. 

I go ; but not to leap the gulf alone. 
I go ; but when I come, 't will be the burst 
Of ocean in the earthquake — rolling back 
, In swift and mountainous ruin. Fare you well : 
You build my funeral pile ; but your best blood 
Shall quench its flame ! Back, slaves ! 
I will return. — [George Croly. 



Hymn to the Night. 

I heard the trailing garments of the Night 
Sweep through her marble halls ! 

I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light 
From the celestial walls ! 

I felt her presence ^ by its spell of might, 

Stoop o'er me from above ; 
The calm, majestic presence of the Night, 

As of the one I love. 

I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight, 

The manifold, soft chimes, 
That fill the haunted chambers of the Night, 

Like some old poet's rhymes. 

From the cool cisterns of the midnight air 

My spirit drank repose ; 
The fountain of perpetual peace flows there, 

From those deep cisterns flows. 

O holy Night ! from thee I learn to bear 

What man has borne before ! 
Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care, 

And they complain no more. 



THE BAREFOOT BOY. 167 

Peace ! Peace ! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer ! 

Descend with broad- winged flight, 
The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the most fair, 

The best-beloved Night ! 

— [Henry W. Longfellow. 



The Barefoot Boy. 

Blessings on thee, little man, 
Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan ! 
With thy tnrned-np pantaloons, 
And thy merry whistled tunes ; 
With thy red lip, redder still 
Kissed by strawberries on the hill ; 
With the sunshine on thy face, 
Through thy torn brim's jaunty grace ; 
From my heart I give thee joy, — 
I was once a barefoot boy ! 
Prince thou art, — the grown-up man 
Only is republican. 
Let the million- dollared ride ! 
Barefoot, trudging at his side, 
Thou hast more than he can buy 
In the reach of ear and eye, — 
Outward sunshine, inner joy : 
Blessings on thee, barefoot boy ! 

O for boyhood's painless play, 
Sleep that wakes in laughing day, 
Health that mocks the doctor's rules, 
Knowledge never learned of schools, 
Of the wild bee's morning chase, 
Of the wild flower's time and place, 
Flight of fowl and habitude 



168 SELECTIONS FOR READING. 

Of the tenants of the wood ; 
How the tortoise bears his shell, 
How the wooclchuck digs his cell, 
And the ground-mole sinks his well ; 
How the robin feeds her young, 
How the oriole's nest is hung ; 
Where the whitest lilies blow, 
Where the freshest berries grow, 
Where the ground- nut trails its vine, 
Where the wood-grape's clusters shine ; 
Of the black wasp's cunning way, 
Mason of his walls of cla} 1 -, 
And the architectural plans 
Of gray hornet artisans ! — 
For, eschewing books and tasks, 
Nature answers all he asks ; 
Hand in hand with her he walks, 
Face to face with her he talks, 
Part and parcel of her J03-, — 
Blessings on the barefoot hoy I 

for bo} r hood's time of June, 
Crowding years in one brief moon, 
When all things I heard or saw, 
Me, their master, waited for. 

1 was rich in flowers and trees, 
Humming-birds and honey-bees ; 
For my sport the squirrel played, 
Plied the snouted mole his spade ; 
For nry taste the blackberry cone 
Purpled over hedge and stone ; 
Laughed the brook for my delight, 
Through the day and through the night, 
"Whispering at the garden wall, 
Talked with me from fall to fall ; 
Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond, 



THE BAREFOOT BOY. 

Mine the walnut slopes bej^ond, 
Mine, on bending orchard trees, 
Apples of Hesperides ! 
Still, as my horizon grew, 
Larger grew my riches too ; 
All the world I saw or knew 
Seemed a complex Chinese toy, 
Fashioned for a barefoot boy ! 

for festal dainties spread, 

Like my bowl of milk and bread, — 
Pewter spoon and bowl of wood, 
On the door-stone, gray and rude ! 
O'er me like a regal tent, 
Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent, 
Purple-curtained, fringed with gold, 
Looped in many a wind-swung fold ; 
WMLe for music came the play 
Of the pied frog's orchestra; 
And, to light the noisy choir, 
Lit the fly his lamp of fire. 

1 was monarch: pomp and joy 
Waited on the barefoot boy ! 

Cheerily, then, my little man, 
Live and laugh as boyhood can ! 
Though the flinty slopes be hard, 
Stubble-speared the new-mown sward, 
Every morn shall lead thee through 
Fresh baptisms of the dew ; 
Every evening from thy feet 
Shall the cool wind kiss the heat : 
All too soon these feet must hide 
In the prison cells of pride, 
Lose the freedom of the sod, 
Like a colt's for work be shod, 



169 



170 SELECTIONS FOR READING. 

Made to tread the mills of toil, 
Up and down in ceaseless moil : 
Happy if their track be found 
Never on forbidden ground ; 
Happy if they sink not in 
Quick and treacherous sands of sin. 
Ah ! that thou couldst know thy joy, 
Ere it passes, barefoot boy ! 

— [John 67. Whittier. 



Popular Education. 

* * * It is not necessary for each member of the human 
race to repeat the experience of his predecessors, for their results 
have descended to him, and he has acquired them by education, 
and hence he may stand on the top of the ladder of human culture, 
and build a new round to it, so that his children may climb higher 
and do the like. 

But the animal does not amass experience, and hence does not 
progress. Strictly confined to the dreamy life of the senses, and 
never rising to a general idea, the individual animal matures and 
dies. Only the species lives on : there is no immortality for the 
individual animal. It requires a being who can combine in him- 
self the product of his entire species by his individual activity — 
just as man can — to fulfil the conditions of immortality. 

If we look at the character of man's progress, we shall find it 
to consist in subordinating the material world, and thereby freeing 
himself from the hard limits that hem in the lower orders. Man's 
destiny is to realize in himself the directive power over nature, to 
make it pliant to his will. This supremacy he attains by means of 
tools. 

Carlyle in his " Sartor Resartus " defines man to be "the tool- 
using animal." He can turn nature against itself, and devote it 
to use ; he can reduce the process of nature to means for the 



POPULAR EDUCATION. 171 

achievement of his purposes, and he is able not only to use the 
material world, but he can utilize his own experience. Thus it 
happens that in his warehouse are found two kinds of tools — we 
may call them practical and theoretical tools. With these tools he 
subdues all opposition, and, like the great magicians of old, he 
lays his spells on time and space, and they serve at his bidding. 
Animal, mineral, plant, the four elements, all acknowledge his 
dominion. By his practical tools, such as the axe, the plow, the 
wagon, or the horse, the ship, the steam-engine — he achieves the 
victory of art. By his theoretical tools — such as language, math- 
ematics, the sciences, and philosophy — he reduces the world to 
transparent forms, and achieves thereby the victory of ideas. 
Give to man the practical tools — the tools of thought — and he will 
immediately invent the tools of art, and conquer matter and force. 
Thus man owes his superiority to the command of instrumen- 
talities. These instrumentalities are the combined product of the 
activity of the race. Taking the practical side of combination 
into view for a moment, what a perfect instrument has been 
formed by society and the State to realize the distribution of the 
products of labor. Take the machinery of exchange known as 
money. Diversity of employment, and consequently skilled labor, 
depends upon facility of exchange. Money makes possible the 
participation of each in the labor of all. Each works for all, and 
all for each. Every vessel that crosses the ocean, and every 
laborer on the distant plantation in Cuba or Brazil, or even by 
the far-off Nile or Ganges, every manufacturer in Birmingham or 
Manchester, affects the well-being of the coal miner or wheat- 
grower in Tennessee or Kansas. He is comforted and cheered by 
the tea and coffee, nourished and sustained by the fruits, grains, 
and spices, the cotton, and silk, and linen, that have traveled to 
him from round the earth. Nay, the very drugs that make life 
possible in our malarious clime are grown from six to twelve thou- 
sand miles hence. The relation is reciprocal ; and every stroke 
which the Tennessee coal miner strikes with his pick-axe affects the 
price of iron in all the markets of the world, and the price of iron 
affects the price of all other commodities. — \_William T. Harris. 



172 SELECTIONS FOR READING. 



The Children's Hour. 

Between the dark and the daylight, 
When night is beginning to lower, 

Conies a pause in the day's occupations, 
That is known as the children's hour. 

I hear in the chamber above me 

The patter of little feet, 
The sound of a door that is opened, 

And voices soft and sweet. 

From my study I see in the lamplight, 
Descending the broad hall stair, 

Grave Alice and laughing Allegra, 
And Edith with golden hair. 

A whisper and then a silence ; 

Yet I know by their merry eyes 
They are plotting and planning together 

To take me b}^ surprise. 

A sudden rush from the stairway, 
A sudden raid from the hall, 

B}' three doors left unguarded, 
They enter my castle wall. 

They climb up into my turret, 

O'er the arms and back of my chair ; 

If I try to escape, they surround me : 
They seem to be everywhere. 

They almost devour me with kisses, 
Their arms about me intwine, 

Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen 
In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine. 



OFT IN THE STILLY NIGHT. 173 

Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti, 

Because you have scaled the wall, 
Such an old mustache as I am 

Is not a match for you all ? 

I have you fast in my fortress, 

And will not let you depart, 
But put you into the dungeon 

In the round-tower of my heart. 

And there I will keep you forever, 

Yes, forever and a day, 
Till the walls shall crumble to ruin, 

And moulder in dust away. 

— [Henry Wadsivorth Longfelloiv. 



Oft in the Stilly Night. 

Oft in the stilly night 

Ere slumber's chain has bound me, 
Fond Memory brings the light 
Of other days around me : 
The smiles, the tears, 
Of boyhood's years, 
The words of love then spoken ; 
The eyes that shone, 
Now dimmed and gone, 
The cheerful hearts now broken ! 
Thus in the stilly night 

Ere slumber's chain hath bound me, 
Sad memory brings the light 
Of other days around me. 

When I remember all 

The friends so linked together 



174 SELECTIONS FOR READING. 



I've seen around me fall 

Like leaves in wintry weather, 
I feel like one 
Who treads alone 
Some banquet-hall deserted, 
Whose lights are fled, 
Whose garlands dead, 
And all but he departed ! 
Thus in the stilly night 

Ere slumber's chain hath bound me, 
Sad Memor}^ brings the light 
Of other days around me. 

— [Thomas Moore. 



Charity. 



The warfare of life has its perils, its sufferings, its extremities, 
its rescues, as urgent, as narrow as the warfare of arms. The 
greatest dangers, the most deplorable sacrifices, the most thrilling 
escapes, are not those of the tented field or "the imminent deadly 
breach." It is not necessary to go to the antipodes, and search 
amidst the crash of old effete despotisms, for scenes of horror 
which make your blood run cold at their bare mention. 

Here in the heart of our great cities, here in the neighborhood 
of spacious squares and magnificent avenues, here within the 
shadow of palatial walls, hundreds, thousands of our fellow-crea- 
tures are beleaguered this moment by the gaunt and ruthless 
legions of want and temptation. I venture to sajr that within a 
quarter of a mile of this magnificent building, 1 crowded as it is 
with so much of the prosperity, the intelligence, the glowing life 
of this mighty metropolis, there are men and women who have not 
partaken of a regular meal this day ; whose shivering limbs are 
covered with rags that do not deserve the name of clothes ; — their 

1 The Academy of Music in New York. 



CHARITY. 175 

children crying for the bread which their wretched parents cannot 
give them. No resources, no friends to man the walls of their 
defence ; — a stern, hand to hand, all but desperate fight with the 
merciless foe. Poor creatures, born with all your susceptibilities 
and wants ; some of them to all your hopes and expectations, 
clasped in their infancy to bosoms as fond and warm as those 
which nursed you into health, strength, and beauty ; — their mem- 
ories running back in their delirious dreams to homes as pleasant 
as those which sheltered your childhood, — overtaken by calamity, 
by disease, by the hard times ; — besieged, shut in by the dreadful 
enemy. The fires of necessity (fiercer than those which spout 
from roaring artillery or rage like an open hell along the embattled 
lines) girding them round ; — nearer and nearer, hotter and hotter, 
with every feverish unfed morning's light and every fainting even- 
ing's watch; — the last piteous appeal for employment unsuccess- 
fully made ; the ill-spared cloak stripped from the shivering 
shoulders ; the last sorely needed blanket torn from the miserable 
bed and taken to the pawnbrokers ; the last fond trifles of better 
days, — the poor little gold ring, which her sailor brother put upon 
her finger when he went upon the voyage from which he never 
came back, — the bracelet of flaxen hair cut from the head of a 
little sister, as she lay in her coffin, white as the pale roses that 
decked it ; — the cherished locket that clasped the tenderer secret 
of her young affections (for these poor creatures have hearts as 
warm as any that beat in those glittering rows), the very Bible 
that her mother placed in her trunk, when joyous and hopeful, 
loaded with the blessed burden of a parent's tears and prayers and 
benedictions, she left her native village for the city; all pawned, 
all bartered for bread, all parted with forever. Oh Heavens ! how 
can they bear it ! How can virtue, conscience, holy shame itself 
hold out under another day's craving, gnawing hunger, another 
night's hateful, devilish temptation? They will, they must give 
way. 

Oh Christian men, and still more, dear Christian women, have 
mercy upon them ! Let them, as they are just about to fall, "like 
stars that set to rise no more," — let them hear in the distance the 



176 SELECTIONS FOR READING. 

footsteps of manly aid, — let hope come softly rustling to the 
strained ear like the nutter of an angel's wing, in the robes of 
matronly and maiden sympathy flying to their rescue, and from 
the lips of your poor sisters just ready body and soul to perish, 
let the blessed cry be heard, "We are saved, we are saved!" 
— [Edward Everett. 



Queen Mab. 



And statesmen boast 
Of wealth ! The wordy eloquence that lives 
After the ruin of their hearts, can gild 
The bitter poison of a nation's woe, 
Can turn the worship of the servile mob 
To their corrupt and glaring idol, Fame, 
From Virtue, trampled by its iron tread, 
Although its dazzling pedestal be raised 
Amid the horrors of a limb- strewn field, 
With desolated dwellings smoking round. 
The man of ease, who, ~bj his warm fireside 
To deeds of charitable intercourse 
And bare fulfilment of the common laws 
Of decency and prejudice, confines 
The struggling nature of his human heart, 
Is duped by their cold sophistry ; he sheds 
A passing tear perchance upon the wreck 
Of earthly peace, when near his dwelling's door 
The frightful waves are driven, — when his son 
Is murdered by the tyrant. But the poor man, 
Whose life is misery, and fear, and care ; 
Whom the morn wakens but to fruitless toil ; 
Who ever hears his famished offspring's scream, 
Whom their pale mother' s uncomplaining gaze 
Forever meets, and the proud rich man's eye 



QUEEN MAB. 177 

Flashing command, and the heart-breaking scene 
Of thousands like himself ; he little heeds 
The rhetoric of tyranny, his hate 
Is quenchless as his wrongs, he laughs to scorn 
The vain and hitter mockery of words, 
Feeling the horror of the tyrant's deeds, 
And unrestrained but by the arm of power, 
That knows and dreads his enmity. 

The iron rod of penury still compels 

Her wretched slave to bow the knee to wealth, 

And poison, with unprofitable toil, 

A life too void of solace to confirm 

The very chains that bind him to his doom. 

Nature, impartial in munificence, 

Has gifted man with all-subduing will : 

Matter, with all its transitory shapes, 

Lies subjected and plastic at his feet, 

That, weak from bondage, tremble as they tread. 

How many a rustic Milton has passed by, 

Stifling the speechless longings of his heart, 

In unremitting drudgery and care ! 

How many a vulgar Cato has compelled 

His energies, no longer tameless then, 

To mould a pin, or fabricate a nail ! 

How many a Newton, to whose passive ken 

Those mighty spheres that gem infinity 

Were only specks of tinsel, fixed in heaven 

To light the midnights of his native town ! 

Yet every heart contains perfection's germ: 
The wisest of the sages of the earth, 
That ever from the stores of reason drew 
Science and truth, and virtue's dreadless tone, 
Were but a weak and inexperienced boy, 
Proud, sensual, unimpassioned, unimbued 
12 



178 SELECTIONS FOR READING. 

With pure desire and universal love, 

Compared to that high being, of cloudless brain, 

Untainted passion, elevated will, 

"Which death (who even would linger long in awe 

Within his noble presence, and beneath 

His changeless eye-beam, ) might alone subdue. 

Him, every slave now dragging through the filth 

Of some corrupted city his sad life, 

Pining with famine, swoln with luxury, 

Blunting the keenness of his spiritual sense 

With narrow schemings and unworthy cares, 

Or madly rushing through all violent crime, 

To move the deep stagnation of his soul, — 

Might imitate and equal. 

But mean lust 
Has bound its chains so tight about the earth, 
That all within it but the virtuous man 
Is venal : gold or fame will surely reach 
The price prefixed by selfishness, to all 
But him of resolute and unchanging will ; 
Whom, nor the plaudits of a servile crowd, 
Nor the vile joys of tainting luxury, 
Can bribe to yield his elevated soul 
To tyranny or falsehood, though they wield 
With blood-red hand the sceptre of the world. 

All things are sold : the very light of heaven 
Is venal ; earth's unsparing gifts of love, 
The smallest and most despicable things 
That lurk in the abysses of the deep, 
All objects of our life, even life itself, 
And the poor pittance which the laws allow 
Of liberty, the fellowship of man, 
Those duties which his heart of human love 
Should urge him to perform instinctively, 



victor Hugo's genius. - 179 

Are bought and sold as in a public mart 

Of undisguising selfishness, that sets 

On each its price, the stamp-mark of her reign. 

Even love is sold ; the solace of all woe 

Is turned to deadliest agony, old age 

Shivers in selfish beauty's loathing arms, 

And youth's corrupted impulses prepare 

A life of horror from the blighting bane 

Of commerce : whilst the pestilence that springs 

From unenjoying sensualism, has filled 

All human life with hydra-headed woes. 

— [Percy Bysshe Shelley. 



Victor Hugo's Genius. 

Once only in my life, I have seen the likeness of Victor Hugo's 
genius. Crossing over, when a boy, from Ostend, I had the for- 
tune to be caught in midchannel by a thunderstorm strong enough 
to delay the packet some three good hours over the due time. 
About midnight, the thundercloud was right overhead, full of in- 
cessant sound and fire, lightening and darkening so rapidly that 
it seemed to have life, and a delight in its life. At the same hour, 
the sky was clear to the west, and all along the sea-line there 
sprang and sank, as to music, a restless dance or chase of summer 
lightnings across the lower sky : a race and riot of lights, beauti- 
ful and rapid as a course of shining Oceanides along the tremulous 
floor of the sea. Eastward, at the same moment, the space of 
clear sky was higher and wider, a splendid semi-circle of too 
intense purity to be called blue ; it was of no color nameable by 
man ; and midway in it, between the storm and the sea, hung the 
motionless full moon ; Artemus watching with a serene splendor 
of scorn, the battle of Titans and the revel of nymphs, from her 
stainless and Olympian summit of divine indifferent light. Un- 
derneath and about us, the sea was paved with flame ; the whole 



180 SELECTIONS FOR READING. 

water trembled and hissed with phosporic fire ; even through the 
wind and thunder, I could hear the crackling and sputtering of 
the water-sparks. In the same heaven, and in the same hour, 
there shone at once, the three contrasted glories, golden and fiery 
and white, of moonlight and of the double lightnings, forked and 
sheet ; and under all this miraculous heaven, lay a flaming floor 
of water. 

That, in a most close and exact symbol, is the best possible 
definition I can give of Victor Hugo's genius. And the impres- 
sion of that hour was upon me, the impression of his mind ; phys- 
ical, as it touched the nerves with a more vivid passion of pleasure 
than music or wine; spiritual, as it exalted the spirit with the 
senses and above them to the very summit of vision and delight. 
It is no fantastic similitude, but an accurate likeness of two 
causes working to the same effect. There is nothing but that 
delight like the delight given by some of his work. — [Algernon 
G. Swinburne. 



Cato's Soliloquy. 



It must be so — Plato, thou reason' st well ! — 
Else whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire, 
This longing after immortality ? 
Or whence this secret dread, and inward horror 
Of falling into nought? why shrinks the soul 
Back on herself, and startles at destruction? 
'Tis the divinity that stirs within us ; 
'Tis heaven itself, that points out a hereafter, 
And intimates eternity to man. 
Eternity ! thou pleasing, dreaclf ul thought ! 
Through what variety of untry'd being, 
Through what new scenes and changes must we pass ! 
The wide, th' unbounded prospect lies before me ; 
But shadows, clouds an4 darkness rest upon it. 



CRITICISM. 181 

Here will I hold. If there's a power above us 

(And that there is, all nature cries aloud 

Through all her works), he must delight in virtue ; 

And that which he delights in must be happy. 

But when ? or where ? This world was made for Caesar. 

I'm wearj^ of conjectures — this must end 'em. 

Thus am I doubly arm'd — my death and life, 

My bane and antidote are both before me : 

This in a moment brings me to an end ; 

But this informs me I shall never die. 

The Soul, secured in her existence, smiles 

At the drawn dagger, and defies its point. 

The stars shall fade away, the Sun himself 

Grow dim with age, and nature sink in years ; 

But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth, 

Unhurt amid the war of elements, 

The wreck of matter, and the crush of worlds. 

— [Joseph Addison. 



Criticism. 



— And how did Garrick speak the soliloquy last night? Oh, 
against all rule, my lord, most ungrammatically! betwixt the sub- 
stantive and the adjective, which should agree together in number, 

case, and gender, he made a breach thus, stopping as if the 

point wanted settling ; — and betwixt the nominative case, which 
your lordship knows should govern the verb, he suspended his 
voice in the epilogue a dozen times, three seconds and three-fifths 
by a stop-watch, my lord, each time. — Admirable grammarian ! — 
But in suspending Ms voice — was the sense suspended likewise? 
did no expression of attitude or countenance fill up the chasm ? — 
was the eye silent ? Did you narrowly look ? — I looked only at 
the stop-watch, my lord. — Excellent observer ! 

And what of this new book, the whole world make such a rout 
about? — Oh, 'tis out of all plumb, my lord, — quite an irregular 



182 SELECTIONS FOR READING. 

thing! not one of the angles at the fonr corners was a right 
angle. — I had my rule and compasses, etc., my lord, in my 
pocket. — Excellent critic ! 

— And for the epic poem your lordship bid me look at ! — upon 
taking the length, breadth, height, and depth of it, and trying 
them at home upon an exact scale of Bossu's — 'tis out, my lord, 
in every one of its dimensions. — Admirable connoisseur! 

— And did you step in, to take a look at the grand picture on 
your way back? — "lis a melancholy daub! my lord; not one 
principle of the pyramid in any one group ! — and what a price ! — 
for there is nothing of the coloring of Titian — the expression of 
Rubens — the grace of Raphael — the purity of Dominichino — 
the correggioscity of Correggio — the learning of Poussin — the 
airs of Guido — the taste of the Caracci's — or the grand contour 
of Angelo. 

Grant me patience, just Heaven ! — Of all the cants which are 
canted in this canting world — though the cant of hypocrites may 
be the worst — the cant of criticism is the most tormenting ! 

I would go fifty miles on foot, to kiss the hand of that man, 
whose generous heart will give up the reins of his imagination into 
his author's hands — be pleased he knows not why, and cares not 
wherefore. — [Laurence Sterne. 



To the Humble-Bee. 

Burly, dozing humble-bee ! 
Where thou art is clime for me ; 
Let them sail for Porto-Rique, 
Far-off heats through seas to seek, 
I will follow thee alone, 
Thou animated torrid zone ! 
Zigzag steerer, desert cheerer, 
Let me chase thy waving lines ; 
Keep me nearer, me thy hearer, 
Singing over shrubs and vines. 



TO THE HUMBLE-BEE. 183 

Insect lover of the sun, 

Joy of thy dominion ! 

Sailor of the atmosphere ; 

Swimmer through the thoughts of air, 

Voyager of light and noon, 

Epicurean of June ! 

Wait, I prithee, till I come 

Within earshot of thy hum, — 

All without is martyrdom. 

When the south- wind in May days, 
With a net of shining haze 
Silvers the horizon wall ; 
And, with softness touching all, 
Tints the human countenance 
With the color of romance ; 
And infusing subtle heats 
Turns the sod to violets, — 
Thou in sunny solitudes, 
Rover of the underwoods, 
The green silence dost displace 
With thy mellow breezy bass. 

Hot midsummer's petted crone, 

Sweet to me thy drowsy tone 

Tells of countless sunny hours, 

Long days, and solid banks of flowers ; 

Of gulfs of sweetness without bound, 

In Indian wildernesses found ; 

Of Syrian peace, immortal leisure, 

Firmest cheer, and bird-like pleasure. 

Aught unsavory or unclean 

Hath my insect never seen ; 

But violets, and bilberry-dells, 

Maple sap and daffodels, 

Grass with green-flag half-mast high, 



184 SELECTIONS FOR READING. 

Succory to match the sky, 
Columbine with horn of honey, 
Scented fern, and agrimony, 
Clover, catch-fly, adder's tongue, 
And brier-roses, dwelt among : 
All beside was unknown waste, 
All was picture as he passed. 
Wiser far than human seer, 
Yellow-breeched philosopher, 
Seeing only what is fair, 

Sipping only what is sweet, 
Thou dost mock at fate and care, 

Leave the chaff and take the wheat. 
When the fierce northwestern blast 
Cools sea and land so far and fast, — 
Thou already slumberest deep ; 
Woe and want thou canst outsleep ; 
Want and woe, which torture us, 
Thy sleep makes ridiculous. 

— \_Ralph Waldo Emerson, 



The Harp that once through Tara's Halls. 

The harp that once through Tara's halls 

The soul of music shed, 
Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls 

As if that soul were fled. 
So sleeps the pride of former days, 

So glory's thrill is o'er, 
And hearts that once beat high for praise, 

Now feel that pulse no more. 

No more to chiefs and ladies bright 
The harp of Tara swells ; 



ANONYMOUS WRITING. 185 

The chord alone, that breaks at night 

Its tale of ruin tells. 
Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes, 

The only throb she gives, 
Is when some heart indignant breaks, 

To show that still she lives. 

— [Thomas Moore. 



Anonymous Writing. 

A well-known author once received a letter from a peer with 
whom he was slightly acquainted, asking him whether he was the 
author of a certain article in the Edinburgh Review. He replied 
that he never made communications of that kind, except to inti- 
mate friends, selected by himself for the purpose, when he saw fit. 
His refusal to answer, however, pointed him out — which, as it 
happened, he did not care for — as the author. 

But a case might occur, in which the revelation of the author- 
ship might involve a friend in some serious difficulties. In any 
such case, he might have answered something in this style : — 

" I have received a letter purporting to be from your lordship, 
but the matter of it induces me to suspect that it is a forgery by 
some mischievous trickster. The writer asks whether I am the 
author of a certain article. It is a sort of question which no one 
has a right to ask ; and I think, therefore, that every one is bound 
to discourage such inquiries by answering them — whether one is 
or is not the author — with a rebuke for asking impertinent ques- 
tions about private matters. I say ' private,' because, if an article 
be libellous or seditious, the law is open, and any one may proceed 
against the publisher, and compel him either to give up the author, 
or to bear the penalty. If, again, it contains false statements, 
these, coming from an anonymous pen, may be simply contra- 
dicted. And if the arguments be unsound, the obvious course is 
to refute them ; but who wrote it, is a question of idle or of mis- 
chievous curiosity, as it relates to the private concerns of an indi- 



186 SELECTIONS FOR READING. 

vidual. If I were to ask your lordship, 'Do you spend your 
income ? or lay by ? or outrun ? Do you and your lady ever have 
an altercation ? Was she your first love ? or were you attached to 
some one else before ? ' If I were to ask such questions, your 
lordship's answer would probably be, to desire the footman to 
show me out. Now, the present inquiry I regard as no less unjus- 
tifiable, and relating to private concerns ; and, therefore, I think 
every one bound, when so questioned, always, whether he is the 
author or not, to meet the inquiry with a rebuke. 

Hoping that my conjecture is right, of the letter's being a 
forger}^, I remain," etc. 

In any case, however, in which a refusal to answer does not 
convey any information, the best way, perhaps, of meeting imper- 
tinent inquiries, is by saying, "Can you keep a secret?" and 
when the other answers that he can, you may reply, ' ' Well, so 
can I." — [Richard Whately. 



The Raven. 



Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, 
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, — 
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, 
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. 
" 'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door ; 
Only this and nothing more." 

Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December, 
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. 
Eagerly I wished the morrow ; vainly I had sought to borrow 
From my books surcease of sorrow, — sorrow for the lost Lenore, — 
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore, — 
Nameless here for ever more. 

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain 
Thrilled me, — filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before ; 



THE RAVEN. 187 

So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating, 
" 'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door, — 
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door ; 
That it is and nothing more." 



Presently my soul grew stronger ; hesitating then no longer, 
u Sir," said I, " or madam, truly your forgiveness I implore ; 
But the fact is, I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, 
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, 
That I scarce was sure I heard you," — Here I opened wide the 
door ; 

Darkness there, and nothing more. 

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, 

fearing, 
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before ; 
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token, 
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word Lenore ! 
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word Lenore ! 
Merely this and nothing more. 

Back into my chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, 
Soon again I heard a tapping, something louder than before. 
"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window-lattice ; 
Let me see then what thereat is, and this mystery explore, — 
Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore ; — 
'Tis the wind, and nothing more." 

Open then I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, 

In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore. 

Not the least obeisance made he ; not an instant stopped or stayed 

he ; 
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door, — 
Perched upon a bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door, — 
Perched, and sat, and nothing more. 

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, 
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, 



188 SELECTIONS FOR READING. 

" Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, " art sure 

no craven ; 
Ghastly, grim, and ancient raven, wandering from the nightly shore, 
Tell me what thy lordly name is- on the night's Plutonian shore? " 
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore." 

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, 
Though its answer little meaning, little relevancy bore ; 
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being 
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door, 
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door, 
With such name as ' ' Nevermore ! ' ' 

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only 

That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. 

Nothing further then he uttered, — not a feather then he flut- 
tered, — 

Till I scarcely more than muttered " Other friends have flown 
before, — 

On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before." 
Then the bird said, " Nevermore ! " 

Startled at the stillness, broken by reply so aptly spoken, 
"Doubtless," said I, " what it utters is its only stock and store, 
Caught from some unhappy master, whom unmerciful disaster 
Followed fast and followed faster, till his song one burden bore, 
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore, — 
Of ' Nevermore — nevermore ! ' " 

But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, 
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and 

door, 
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to Unking 
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore — 
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of 

yore — 

Meant in croaking "Nevermore! " 



THE RAVEN. 189 

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing 
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core ; 
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining 
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er, 
But whose velvet violet lining, with the lamp-light gloating o'er, 
She shall press — ah ! nevermore ! 

Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen 

censer, 
Swung by seraphim, whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor. 
"Wretch," I cried, " thy God hath lent thee, — by these angels 

he hath sent thee 
Respite, — respite and nepenthe from the memories of Lenore ! 
Quaff, O, quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore ! " 
Quoth the raven, ' ' Nevermore ! ' ' 

"Prophet," said I, " thing of evil ! — prophet still, if bird or devil ! 
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, 
Desolate, yet all undaunted, on tjiis desert land enchanted, — 
On this home by horror haunted, — tell me truly, I implore, — 
Is there — is there balm in Gilead? — tell me, — tell me, I im- 
plore ! " 

Quoth the raven, ' ' Nevermore ! ' ' 

"Prophet," said I, "thing of evil ! — prophet still, if bird or devil ! 
By that heaven that bends above us, — by that God we both adore, 
Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if, within the distant Aidenn, 
It shall clasp a sainted maiden, whom the angels name Lenore, — 
Clasp a fair and radiant maiden, whom the angels name Lenore ! — 
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore ! " 

"Be that word our sign of parting, bird of evil! " I shrieked, up- 
starting, — 
" Get thee back into the tempest and the night's Plutonian shore! 
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken ! 
Leave my loneliness unbroken ! — quit the bust above my door ! 



190 SELECTIONS FOR READING. 

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my 
door! " 

Quoth the raven, " Nevermore ! " 

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting 
On the pallid bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door ; 
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon that is dreaming, 
And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the 

floor; 
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor 
Shall be lifted — nevermore ! 

— [Edgar A. Poe. 






Ode to a Skylark. 



Hail to thee, blithe spirit ! 

Bird thou never wert, 
That from heaven, or near it, 

Pourest thy full heart 
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. 

Higher still and higher, 

From the earth thou springest 
Like a cloud of fire ; 

The blue deep thou wingest, 
And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest. 

In golden lightning 

Of the sunken sun, 
O'er which clouds are brightening, 

Thou dost float and run ; 
Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun. 

The pale purple even 

Melts around thy flight ; 
Like a star of heaven, 



ODE TO A SKYLARK. 191 

In the broad daylight 
Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight. 

Keen as are the arrows 

Of that silver sphere, 
Whose intense lamp narrows t 

In the white dawn clear, 
Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there. 

All the earth and air 

With thy voice is loud, 
As, when night is bare, 

From one lonely cloud, 
The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed. 

What thou art we know not ; 

What is most like thee ? 
From rainbow clouds there flow not 
Drops so bright to see, 
As from thy presence showers a rain of melody. 

Like a poet hidden 

In the light of thought, 
Singing hymns unbidden, 
Till the world is wrought 
To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not : 

Like a high-born maiden 

In a palace tower, 
Soothing her love-laden 

Soul in secret hour 
With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower : 

Like a glow-worm golden 

In a dell of dew, 
Scattering unbeholden 

Its aerial hue 
Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view : 



192 SELECTIONS FOR READING. 

Like a rose embowered 

In its own green leaves, 
By warm winds deflowered 

Till the scent it gives 
Makes faint with too much sweet those heavy-winged thieves. 

Sound of vernal showers 

On the twinkling grass, 
Rain- awaken' d flowers, 

All that ever was 
Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass. 

Teach us, sprite or bird, 

What sweet thoughts are thine : 
I have never heard 
Praise of love or wine 
That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine. 

Chorus hymeneal, 

Or triumphal chaunt, 
Matched with thine would be all 
But an empty vaunt — 
A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want. 

What objects are the fountains 

Of thy happy strain? 
What fields, or waves, or mountains 
What shapes of sky or plain ? 
What love of thine own kind ? what ignorance of pain ? 

With thy clear keen joyance 

Languor cannot be : 
Shadow of annoyance 
Never came near thee : 
Thou lovest ; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety. 

Waking or asleep, 

Thou of death must deem 



MARK ANTONY ON THE DEATH OF CAESAR. 193 

Things more true and deep 
Than we mortals dream, 
Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream ? 

. We look before and after, 

And pine for what is not : 
Our sincerest laughter 

With some pain is fraught ; 
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought. 

Yet if we could scorn 

Hate, and pride, and fear ; 
If we were things born 
Not to shed a tear, 
I know not how thy joy we ever should come near. 

Better than all measures 

Of delightful sound, 
Better than all treasures 

That in books are found, 
Tlry skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground. 

Teach me half the gladness 

That thy brain must know, 
Such harmonious madness 
From my lips would flow, 
The world should listen then, as I am listening now. 

— \_Percy Bysshe Shelley* 



Mark Antony on the Death of Caesar. 

O mighty Caesar ! dost thou lie so low? 
Are all thy conquests, glories, triumphs, spoils, 
Shrunk to this little measure ? — Fare thee well. 
[To the conspirators.} ***** 

I doubt not of your wisdom. 
13 



194 SELECTIONS FOR READING. 

Let each man render me his bloody hand : 

First, Marcus Brutus, will I shake with you ; — 

Next, Caius Cassius, do I take your hand ; — 

Now, Decius Brutus, yours ; — now yours, Metellus ; 

Yours, Cinna ; — and my valiant Casca, yours ; — 

Though last, not least in love, yours, good Trebonius. 

Gentlemen all, — alas ! what shall I say ? 

My credit now stands on such slippery ground, 

That one of two bad ways jou must conceit me, 

Either a coward or a flatterer. — 

That I did love thee, Caesar, O, 't is true : 

If, then, thy spirit look upon us now, 

Shall it not grieve thee dearer than thy death, 

To see thy Antony making his peace, 

Shaking the bloody fingers of thy foes, 

Most noble ! in the presence of thy corse ? 

Had I as many eyes as thou hast wounds, 

Weeping as fast as they stream forth thy blood, 

It would become me better, than to close 

In terms of friendship with thine enemies. 

Pardon me, Julius ! Here wast thou bayed, brave hart ; 

Here didst thou fall ; and here thy hunters stand, 

Sign'd in thy spoil, and crimsoned in thy lethe. 

world, thou wast the forest to this hart ; 
And this, indeed, O world, the heart of thee. 
How like a deer, strucken by many princes, 
Dost thou here lie ! * * * 

[Oration over the body of Ccesar.'] 
Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears ; 

1 come to bury Caesar, not to praise him. 
The evil that men do lives after them, 
The good is oft interred with their bones ; 
So let it be with Caesar. The noble Brutus 
Hath told you Caesar was ambitious ; 

If it were so, it was a grievous fault, 
And grievously hath Caesar answer' d it. 



antont's oration over the body of c^esar. 195 

Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest 

(For Brutus is an honorable man. 

So are they all, all honorable men), 

Come I to speak in Caesar's funeral. 

He was my friend, faithful and just to me : 

But Brutus says he was ambitious ; 

And Brutus is an honorable man. 

He hath brought many captives home to Rome, 

Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill : 

Did this in Caesar seem ambitious ? 

When that the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept : 

Ambition should be made of sterner stuff. 

Yet Brutus says, he was ambitious ; 

And Brutus is an honorable man. 

You all did see, that on the Lupercal 

I thrice presented him a kingly crown, 

Which he did thrice refuse. Was this ambition? 

Yet Brutus says, he was ambitious ; 

And, sure, he is an honorable man. 

I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke, 

But here I am to speak what I do know. 

You all did love him once, not without cause : 

What cause withholds you, then, to mourn for him 

O judgment, thou art fled to brutish beasts, 

And men have lost their reason ! — Bear with me ; 

My heart is in the coffin there with Caesar, 

And I must pause till it come back to me. 

But yesterday the word of Caesar might 

Have stood against the world ; now lies he there, 

And none so poor to do him reverence. 

masters ! if I were disposed to stir 
Your hearts and minds to mutiny and rage, 

1 should do Brutus wrong, and Cassius wrong, 
Who, you all know, are honorable men : 

I will not do them wronsf ; I rather choose 



196 SELECTIONS FOR READING. 

To wrong the dead, to wrong myself, and } r ou, 

Than I will wrong such honorable men. 

But here's a parchment, with the seal of Caesar ; 

I found it in his closet ; 't is his will : 

Let but the commons hear this testament, 

(Which, pardon me, I do not mean to read), 

And they would go and kiss dead Caesar's wounds, 

And dip their napkins in his sacred blood ; 

Yea, beg a hair of him for memory, 

And, dying, mention it within their wills, 

Bequeathing it, as a rich legac} 7 , 

Unto their issue. 

[The citizens insist upon the reading of the will.'] 
Have patience, gentle friends ; I must not read it : 
It is not meet you know how Caesar lov'd you. 
You are not wood, you are not stones, but men ; 
And being men, hearing the will of Caesar, 
It will inflame you, it will make you mad. 
'Tis good you know not that you are his heirs ; 
For, if you should, O, what would come of it ? 
[Citizens still insist upon the reading of the will.'] 
Will you be patient ? Will you stay a while ? 
I have overshot myself to tell you of it. 
I fear I wrong the honorable men, 
Whose daggers have stabb'd Caesar: I do fear it. 

[Citizens grow violent.] 
You will compel me, then, to read the will? 
Then make a ring about the corpse of Caesar, 
And let me show you him that made the will. 
Shall I descend? and will you give me leave? 
******** 
[Antony descends from the platform and the citizens gather round the body 
of Ccesar.] 

If you have tears, prepare to shed them now. 
You all do know this mantle : I remember 



antony's oration over the body of c^esar. 197 

The -first time ever Caesar' put it on ; 

'Twas on a summer's evening, in his tent, 

That clay he overcame the Nervii. 

Look ! in this place, ran Cassius' dagger through : 

See what a rent the envious Casca made : 

Through this the well-beloved Brutus stabb'd 

And, as he pluck' d his cursed steel awa}^ 

Mark how the blood of Caesar follow' d it, 

As rushing out of doors, to be resolv'd 

If Brutus so unkindly knock' d, or no ; 

For Brutus, as you know, was Caesar's angel! 

Judge, O you gods, how dearly Caesar lov'd him! 

This was the most unkindest cut of all ; 

For, when the noble Caesar saw him stab, 

Ingratitude, more strong than traitors' arms, 

Quite A^anquish'd him : then burst his mighty heart ; 

And, in his mantle muffling up his face, 

Even at the base of Pompey's statue, 

Which all the while ran blood, great Caesar fell. 

O, what a fall was there, my countrymen! 

Then I, and you, and all of us fell down, 

Whilst bloody treason flourished over us. 

O, now you weep ; and, I perceive, you feel 

The dint of pity : these are gracious drops. 

Kind souls, what! weep j'ou, when you but behold 

Our Caesar's vesture wounded? Look you here, 

Here is himself, marr'd, as 3 t ou see, with traitors. 



Good friends, sweet friends, let me not stir you up 
To such a sudden flood of mutiiry. 
They that have clone this deed are honorable ; 
What private griefs they have, alas, I know not, 
That made them do it ; thej^ are wise and honorable 
And will, no doubt, with reasons answer you. 
I come not, friends, to steal away your hearts ; 
I am no orator, as Brutus is ; 



198 SELECTIONS FOR READING. 

But, as you know me all, a plain blunt man, 

That love my friend ; and that they know full well, 

That gave me public leave to speak of him. 

For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth, 

Action, nor utterance, nor the power of speech 

To stir men's blood: I only speak right on ; 

I tell you that yourselves do know, 

Show you sweet Caesar's wounds, poor, poor dumb mouths, 

And bid them speak for me : but were I Brutus, 

And Brutus Antony, there were an Antony 

Would ruffle up your spirits, and put a tongue 

In every wound of Caesar, that should move 

The stones of Rome to rise and mutiny. 

vfc vfc vfc yfc vfc $fc vfc 

Here is the will, and under Caesar's seal. 

To every Roman citizen he gives, 

To every several man, seventy-five drachmas. 

Moreover, he hath left you all his walks, 
His private arbors, and new-planted orchards, 
On this side Tiber ; he hath left them you, 
And to your heirs forever : common pleasures, 
To walk abroad, and recreate yourselves. 
Here was a Caesar : when comes such another ? 

— [ William Shakspere. 



To a Mountain Daisy. 

Wee, modest, crimson-tipped fiow'r, 
Thou's met me in an evil hour ; 
For I maun crush amang the stoure 

Thy slender stem. 
To spare thee now is past my pow'r, 

Thou bonie gem. 



TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY. 199 

Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet, 
The bonie Lark, companion meet ! 
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet ! 

Wi* spreckl'd breast, 
When upward-springing, blythe, to greet 

The purpling east. 

Cauld blew the bitter-biting north 
Upon thy early, humble birth ; 
Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth 

Amid the storm, 
Scarce rear'd above the parent-earth 

Thy tender form. 

The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield, 
High shelf ring woods and wa's maun shield, 
But thou, beneath the random bield 

O' clod or stane, 
Adorns the histie stibble-field, 

Unseen, alane. 

There, in thy scanty mantle clad, 
Thy snawie bosom sun- ward spread, 
Thou lifts thy unassuming head 

In humble guise ; 
But now the share uptears thy bed, 

And low thou lies ! 

Such is the fate of artless Maid, 
Sweet flow' ret of the rural shade ! 
By love's simplicity betray' d, 

And guileless trust, 
Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid 

Low i' the dust. 

Such is the fate of simple Bard, 

On life's rousrh ocean luckless starr'd! 



200 SELECTIONS FOR READING. 

Unskilful he to note the card 

Of prudent lore, 
Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, 

And whelm him o'er ! 

Such fate to suffering worth is giv'n, 
Who long with wants and woes has striv'n, 
By human pride or cunning driv'n 

To mis'ry's brink, 
Till wrench' d of ev'ry stay but Heav'n, 

He, ruin'd, sink! 

Ev'n thou who mourn' st the Daisy's fate, 
That fate is thine — no distant date ; 
Stern ruin's ploughshare drives, elate, 

Full on thy bloom, 
Till crush' d beneath the furrow's weight, 

Shall be thy doom ! 

— [Robert Burns, 



Intimations of Immortality. 

Behold the child among his new-born blisses, 
A six years' Darling of a pigmy size ! 
See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies, 
Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses, 
With light upon him from his father's eyes ! 
See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, 
Some fragment from his dream of human life, 
Shaped by himself with newly-learned art ; 

A wedding or a festival ; 

A mourning or a funeral ; 
And this hath now his heart, 

And unto this he frames his song : 

Then will he fit his tongue 



INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY. 201 

To dialogues of business, love or strife ; 

But it will not be long, 
. Ere this be thrown aside, 

And with new joy and pride 
The little actor cons another part ; 
Filling from time to time his ' ' humorous stage ' ' 
With all the Persons down to palsied Age, 
That life brings with her in her equipage ; 

As if his whole vocation 

Were endless imitation. 

Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie 

Thy soul's immensity ; 
Thou best Philosopher, who yet dost keep 
Thy heritage ; thou Eye among the blind, 
That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep, 
Haunted forever by the eternal mind, — 

Mighty Prophet ! Seer blest ! 

On whom those truths do rest, 
Which we are toiling all our lives to find, 
In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave ; 
Thou, over whom thy Immortality 
Broods like the Day, a Master o'er a Slave, 
A Presence which is not to be put by ; 
Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might 
Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height, 
Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke 
The years to bring the inevitable yoke, 
Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife ? 
Full soon thy Soul shall have her earthly freight, 
And custom lie upon thee with a weight, 
Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life ! 

O joy! that in our embers 
Is something that doth live, 
That Nature yet remembers 
What was so fugitive ! 



202 SELECTIONS FOR READING. 

The thought of our past years in me doth breed 
Perpetual benediction : not indeed 
For that which is most worthy to be blest ; 
Delight and liberty, the simple creed 
Of Childhood, whether busy or at rest, 
With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast : — 
. Not for these I raise 
The song of thanks and praise ; 

But for those obstinate questionings 

Of sense and outward things, 

Fallings from us, vanishings ; 

Blank misgivings of a Creature 
Moving about in worlds not realized, 
High instincts before which our mortal Nature 
Did tremble like a guilty Thing surprised : 

But for those first affections, 

Those shadowy recollections, 
Which, be they what they may, 
Are yet the fountain light of all our day, 
Are yet a master light of all our seeing ; 

Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make 
Our noisy years seem moments in the being 
Of the eternal Silence ! truths that wake, 

To perish never ; 
Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavor, 

Nor Man, nor Boy, 
Nor all that is at enmity with joy, 
Can utterly abolish or destroy ! 

Hence in a season of calm weather, 

Though inland far we be, - 
Our souls have sight of that immortal sea 

Which brought us hither, 
Can in a moment travel thither, 
And see the Children sport upon the shore, 
And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore. 

— [William Wordsworth. 



GROUNDS FOR AMERICAN PATRIOTISM. 203 



From "Grounds for American Patriotism." 

* * * Two events in our political history seem to me to 
bring out in striking colors the justice of our claim for a patriotism 
based upon our possession of freedom under the law, and not as 
against the law. 

Recent political events display upon the part of the people the 
magnificent spectacle of the subordination of personal desire to 
declared law — the greatest triumph of which individual nature is 
capable — the doing of the right because it is right, although the 
right is in direct conflict with our interests. The fact that many, 
whether correctly or erroneously, regarded the legal claim right 
only in form and wrong in substance, enhances the value of the 
spectacle as an exhibition of our respect for law and constituted 
authority, and fully refutes any charges of national lawlessness ; 
charges which spring from the consideration of individual short- 
comings ; few with reference to the seething mass of humanity 
which represents our people, and which is free to flow into any 
channel. A graver occasion and a grander spectacle was fur- 
nished at the time of the assassination of President Lincoln ; a 
man whose memory is now respected by many who were at polit- 
ical enmity with him during his life ; a man who will go down to 
history as a representative American, exhibiting the defects in- 
separable from an education acquired during the distractions of 
an active life, but also exhibiting those qualities of character which 
are at once the highest attainments of human effort, and which 
are claimed by us as the natural outgrowth of institutions such 
as ours. It was that spectacle which gave me my first thrill as 
a patriot, and which changed me from the too common condi- 
tion of one who laughingly accepts any reflections upon our insti- 
tutions, into a seeker after the truth of charges so freely made 
and so readily entertained. It was to that spectacle that I owe 
the translation of a lazy feeling of loyalty into a conviction which 
is intensified by every new examination. The spectacle of mil- 
lions of people while under the influence of intense excitement 
caused by a crime at once unknown and unpardonable ; of a peo- 



204 



SELECTIONS FOR READING. 



pie stung to the quick, and with every opportunity and excuse 
for ebullitions of passion ; the spectacle of such a people restrain- 
ing themselves, and deputing to the law the execution of the law's 
behests ; such a spectacle was unparalleled in human history, and 
completely set at rest any apprehensions as to the final success of 
the great problem of human freedom, and of the possibility of 
human self-government. 

Such, then, is the survey of the grounds for a rational patriotism. 
There remains only a brief consideration of the responsibilities 
which such a patriotism imposes upon us. We must recognize the 
fact that while our spiritual growth is good relatively to that of 
other peoples, it is low when viewed absolutely ; it is our part to 
seek through individual development to elevate the standard. To 
successfully do this, we must cease to confound a man with his 
vocation ; to identify the lawyer with the man of intellect ; the 
minister with the possessor of such gifts divine that we may rea- 
sonably starve him in all things human ; the man in politics with 
the mere politician. "We must reaffirm what Whipple claims as 
the distinguishing marks of the Elizabethan era : ' ' That men are 
not only to reason, but to have reason;" "that real thinking 
implies the action of the whole nature, and not of a simple, iso- 
lated faculty ;" " that a belief in human nature, and tacit assump- 
tion of its right to expression, will stimulate human energies." 
If, as we are wont to claim, we are really in earnest when we 
deprecate the state of our spiritual life, we shall accomplish more 
by rational efforts than by any jeremiads, no matter how affecting 
the sentiment, or how attractive the garb. If we are conscious of 
the truth that all development is individual ; that the recognition 
of defects brings with it the duty to remedy the evil in our own 
lives, and then to seek its correction in the lives of others ; if we 
remember that we are what we are to-day, not altogether in virtue 
of our own efforts, but mainly because of the generous sacrifices 
of many generations of noble lives which have in different callings 
been devoted to the attainment of higher standards, and to the 
provision of opportunities for those less favorably circumstanced ; 
if we bear in mind the fact that we owe our opportunities for free 



INDIAN SUMMER. 205 

individual development to the nature of the institutions which our 
ancestors founded ; if we do not forget that these noble men and 
women were of no one class, no one nationality, no one creed, no 
one vocation, we shall surely so manage our great trust that our 
country will continue to be the abode of manly men and womanly 
women, and all our institutions will more and more reflect the 
spirit of the individuals whose combined efforts gave them exist- 
ence. — [Horace H. Morgan. 



Indian Summer. 



From gold to gray 

Our mild sweet day 
Of Indian summer fades too soon ; 

But tenderly 

Above the sea 
Hangs, white and calm, the hunter's moon. 

In its pale fire, 

The village spire 
Glows like the zodiac's spectral lance ; 

The painted walls 

Whereon it falls 
Transfigured stand in marble trance ! 

— {John G. Wliittier. 



The Cheerfulness of Genius. 

Men of truly great powers of mind have generally been cheer- 
ful, social, and indulgent ; while a tendency to sentimental whin- 
ing or fierce intolerance may be ranked among the surest symptoms 
of little souls and inferior intellects. In the whole list of our 
English poets, we can only remember Shenstone and Savage — two 
certainly of the lowest — who were querulous and discontented. 



206 SELECTIONS FOR READING. 

Cowley, indeed, used to call himself melancholy ; but he was 
not in earnest, and at any rate was full of conceits and affec- 
tations, and has nothing to make us proud of him. Shakspere, 
the greatest of them all, was evidently of a free and joyous tem- 
perament ; and so was Chaucer, their common master. The same 
disposition appears to have predominated in Fletcher, Jonson, and 
their great contemporaries. 

The genius of Milton partook something of the austerity of the 
party to which he belonged, and of the controversies in which he 
was involved ; but even when fallen on evil days and evil tongues, 
his spirit seems to have retained its serenity as well as its dignity ; 
and in his private life, as well as in his poetry, the majesty of a 
high character is tempered with great sweetness, genial indul- 
gences, and practical wisdom. 

In the succeeding age, our poets were but too gay ; and though 
we forbear to speak of living authors, we know enough of them to 
say with confidence, that to be miserable or to be hated is not now, 
any more than heretofore, the common lot of those who excel. 

— \_Lord Jeffrey. 



Chorus from Atalanta in Calydox. 

Before the beginning of years, 

There came to the making of man. 
Time, with a gift of tears ; 

Grief, with a glass that ran ; 
Pleasure, with pain for leaven ; 

Summer, with flowers that fell ; 
Remembrance fallen from Heaven, 

And madness risen from Hell ; 
Strength without hands to smite ; 

Love that endures for a breath ; 
Mght, the shadow of light ; 

And life, the shadow of death. 
And the high gods took in hand 

Fire, and the falling of tears ; 



CHORUS FROM ATALANTA IN CALYDON. 207 

And a measure of sliding sand 

From under the feet of the years ; 
And froth and drift of the sea ; 

And dust of the laboring earth ; 
And bodies of things to be 

In the houses of death and of birth ; 
And wrought with weeping and laughter, 

And fashioned with loathing and love. 
With life before and after, 

And death beneath and above, 
For a day, and a night, and a morrow, 

That his strength might endure for a span 
With travail and heavy sorrow, 

The holy spirit of man. 

From the winds of the north and the south, 

They gathered as unto strife ; 
They breathed upon his mouth, 

They filled his body with life ; 
Eye-sight and speech they wrought 

For the veils of the soul therein, 
A time for labor and thought, 

A time to serve and to sin ; 
They gave him light in his ways, 

And love, and a space for delight, 
And beauty, and length of days, 

And night, and sleep in the night. 
His speech is a burning fire ; 

With his lips he travaileth ; 
In his heart is a blind desire ; 

In his e3 r es foreknowledge of death ; 
He weaves, and is clothed with derision ; 

Sows, and he shall not reap ; 
His life is a watch or a vision 

Between a sleep and a sleep. 

— [Algernon C. Swinburne. 



208 



SELECTIONS EOR READING. 



On the Order op Nature. 

See through this air, this ocean, and this earth, 
All matter quick, and bursting into birth. 
Above, how high progressive life may go ! 
Around, how wide ! how deep extend below ! 
Yast chain of Being ! which from God began, 
Natures ethereal, human, angel, man, 
Beast, bird, fish, insect, what no eye can see, 
No glass can reach ; from Infinite to thee, 
From thee to nothing. On superior pow'rs 
Were we to press, inferior might on ours ; 
Or in the full creation leave a void, 
Where one step broken the great scale's destroy' d; 
From Nature's chain whatever link you strike, 
Tenth or ten thousandth, breaks the chain alike, 
And, if each system in gradation roll 
Alike essential to the amazing whole, 
The least confusion but in one, not all 
That system only, but the whole must fall. 



All this dread order break — from whom ? for thee ? 

Vile worm ! Oh madness ! pride ! impiety ! 

What if the foot ordained the dust to tread, 

Or hand to toil, aspir'd to be the head? 

What if the head, the eye, or ear, repin'd 

To serve mere engines to the ruling mind? 

Just as absurd for any part to claim 

To be another, in this gen'ral frame : 

Just as absurd to mourn the task or pains, 

The great directing Mind of All ordains. 

All are but parts of one stupendous whole, 
Whose body Nature is, and God the soul : 
That chang'd through all, and yet in all the same, 
Great in the earth, as in th' ethereal frame, 



HYMN OF PAN. 209 

Warms in the sun, refreshes in the breeze, 
Glows in the stars, and blossoms in the trees, 
Lives through all life, extends through all extent, 
Spreads undivided, operates unspent ; 
Breathes in our soul, informs our mortal part, 
As full, as perfect, in a hair as heart ; 
As full, as perfect, in vile man that mourns, 
As the rapt seraph that adores and burns ; 
To Him no high, no low, no great, no small ; 
He fills, He bounds, connects, and equals all. 
Cease then, nor Order Imperfection name : 
Our proper bliss depends on what we blame. 
Know thy own point : This kind, this due degree 
Of blindness, weakness, Heaven bestows on thee. 
Submit. — In this, or any other sphere, 
Secure to be as blest as thou canst bear: 
Safe in the hand of one disposing Pow'r, 
Or in the natal, or the mortal hour. 
All Nature is but Art, unknown to thee ; 
All Chance, Direction which thou canst not see ; 
All Discord, Harmony not understood • 
All partial Evil, universal Good : 
And, spite of Pride, in erring Reason's spite, 
One truth is clear, — Whatever is, is Right. 

— [Alexander Pope. 



Hymn of Pan. 



From the forests and highlands 

We come, we come ; 
From the river-girt islands, 

Where loud waves are dumb 
Listening to my sweet pipings. 
14 



210 SELECTIONS FOR READING. 

The wind in the reeds and the rushes 

The bees on the bells of thyme, 
The birds on the myrtle bushes, 

The cicale above in the lime, 
And the lizards below in the grass, 
Were as silent as ever old Tanolus was, 
Listening to my sweet pipings. 

Liquid Peneus was flowing, 

And all dark Tempe lay 
In Pelion's shadow, outgrowing 

The light of the dying day, 

Speeded with my sweet pipings. 
The Sileni, and Sylvans, and Fauns, 

And the nymphs of the woods and the waves,. 
To the edge of the moist river-lawns, 

And the brink of the dewy caves, 
And all that then did attend and follow, 
Were silent with love, as you now, Apollo, 
With envy of my sweet pipings. 

I sang of the dancing stars, 

I sang of the daedal Earth, 
And of Heaven — and the giant wars, 
And Love, and Death, and Birth, ; — 
And then I changed my pipings, — 
Singing how down the vale of Menalus 

I pursued a maiden and clasped a reed : 
Gods and men, we are all deluded thus ! 

It breaks in our bosom and then we bleed 
All wept, as I think both ye now would, 
If envy or age had. not frozen your blood, 
At the sorrow of my sweet pipings. 

— [Percy Bysshe Shelley. 



MARINO FALIERO. 211 



The Bird Let Loose. 

The bird let loose in eastern skies, 

When hastening fondly home, 
Ne'er stoops to earth her wing, nor flies 

"Where idle warblers roam ; 
But high she shoots through air and light, 

Above all low delay, 
Where nothing earthly bounds her flight, 

Nor shadow dims her way. 

So grant me, God, from every care 

And stain of passion free, 
Aloft, through Virtue's purer air, 

To hold my course to Thee ! 
No sin to cloud, no lure to stay 

My soul, as home she springs ; — 
Thy sunshine on her joyful way 

Thy freedom in her wings ! 

— \_Thomas Moore. 






From "Marino Faliero." 

[The Court of the Ducal Palace; the outer gates are shut against the 
people. The Doge enters in his ducal robes, in procession with the Council 
of Ten and other Patricians, attended by the Guards, till they arrive at the 
top of the " Giants^ Staircase" (where the Doges took the oaths'); the Execu- 
tioner is stationed there with his sword. On arriving, a chief of the Ten 
takes off the ducal cap from the Doge's head.'] 

Doge. So now the Doge is nothing, and at last 
I am again Marino Faliero. 
'Tis well to be so, though but for a moment. 
Here was I crown' d, and here, bear witness, Heaven! 
With how much more contentment I resign 
That shining mockery, the ducal bauble, 
Then I received the fatal ornament. 



212 SELECTIONS FOR READING. 

One of the Ten. Thou tremblest, Faliero ! 

Doge. 'Tis with age-, then. 

Ben. Faliero ! hast thou aught further to commend, 
Compatible with justice, to the Senate ? 

Doge. I would commend my nephew to their mercy, 
My consort to their justice ; for methinks 
My death, and such a death, might settle all 
Between the State and me. 

Ben. They shall be cared for ; 

Even notwithstanding thine unheard-of crime. 

Doge. Unheard of! ay, there's not a history 
But shows a thousand crown' d conspirators 
Against the people ; but to set them free 
One sovereign only died, and one is dying. 

Ben. And who were they who fell in such a cause? 

Doge. The King of Sparta, and the Doge of Venice - 
Agis and Faliero ! 

Ben. Hast thou more 
To utter or to do ? 

Doge. May I speak? 

Ben. Thou imiy'st ; 

But recollect the people are without, 
Beyond the compass of the human voice. 

Doge. I speak to Time and to Eternity, 
Of which I grow a portion, not to man. 
Ye elements ! in which to be resolved 
I hasten, let my voice be as a spirit 
Upon you ! ye blue waves ! which bore my banner, 
Ye winds! which flutter' d o'er as if you loved it, 
And fill'd my swelling sails as they were wafted 
To many a triumph ! Thou my native earth, 
Which I have bled for, and thou foreign earth, 
Which drank this willing blood from many a wound ! 
Ye stones in which my gore will not sink, but 
Reek up to Heaven ! Ye skies which will receive it ! 
Thou sun ! which shinest on these things, and Thou ! 



MARINO FALIERO. 213 

Who kindlest and who quenchest suns ! — Attest ! 
I am not innocent — but are these guiltless ? 
I perish not unavenged ; for ages 
Float up from the abyss of time to be, 
And show these eyes, before they close, the doom 
Of this proud city, and I leave my curse 
On her and hers forever ! — Yes, the hours 
Are silently engendering of the day, 
When she, who built against Attila a bulwark, 
Shall yield, and bloodlessly and basely yield. 
She shall stoop to be 
A province for an empire, petty town 
In lieu of capital, with slaves for senates, 
Beggars for nobles. 

Then when the Hebrew's in thy palaces, 
The Hun in thy high places, and the Greek 
Walks o'er thy mart, and smiles on it for his ! 
When thy patricians beg their bitter bread 
In narrow streets, and in their shameful need 
Make their nobility a plea for pity ! 
Then in the last gasp of thine agony, 
Amidst thy many murders, think of mine I 
Thou den of drunkards with the blood of princes ! 
Gehenna of the waters ! thou sea of Sodom ! 
Thus I devote thee to the infernal gods ! 
Thee and thy serpent seed ! 

[Here the Doge turns and addresses the executioner .] 

Slave, do thine office ! 
Strike as I have struck the foe ! Strike as I would 
Have struck those tyrants ! Strike deep as my curse ! 
Strike — and but once ! 
[ The Doge throws himself, upon his knees, and as the executioner raises his 
sword the scene closes.^ 

— [Lord Byron. 



214 selections for reading. 

The Angel of Patience. 

To weary hearts, to mourning home?, 
God's meekest Angel gently comes : 
No power has he to banish pain, 
Or give us back our lost again ; 
And yet in tenderest love our dear 
And heavenly Father sends him here. 

There's quiet in that Angel's glance, 

There's rest in his still countenance ! 

He mocks no grief with idle cheer, 

Nor wounds with words the mourner's ear ; 

But ills and woes he may not cure, 

He kindly trains us to endure. 

Angel of Patience ! sent to calm 
Our feverish brows with cooling palm ; 
To lay the storms of hope and fear, 
And reconcile life's smile and tear; 
The throbs of wounded pride to still, 
And make our own our Father's will ! 

O thou who mournest on thy way, 
With longings for the close of day ; 
He walks with thee, that Angel kind, 
And gently whispers, " Be resigned: 
Bear up, bear on, the end shall tell 
The dear Lord ordereth all things well ! ' ' 

— [John 67. Whittier. 



Hymn before Sunrise in the Vale of Chamouni. 

Hast thou a charm to stay the morning-star 
In his steep course ? So long he seems to pause 
On thy bald, awful head, O sovran Blanc ! 
The Arve and Arveiron at thy base 



HYMN BEFORE SUNRISE IN THE VALE OF CHAMOUNI. 215 

Have ceaselessly ; but thou, most awful Form ! 
Eisest from forth thy sileut sea of pines, 
How silently ! Around thee and above 
Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black, 
An ebon mass. Methinks thou piercest it, 
As with a wedge ! But when I look again, 
It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine, 
Thy habitation from eternity ! 

dread and silent Mount ! I gazed upon thee, 
Till thou, still present to the bodily sense, 

Didst vanish from my thought : entranced in prayer 

1 worshiped the Invisible alone. 

Yet, like some sweet beguiling meloclv, 

So sweet we know not we are listening to it, 

Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my thought, 

Yea, with my life and life's own secret joj^: 

Till the dilating Soul, enrapt, transfused, 

Into the mighty vision passing there 

As in her natural form, swelled vast to Heaven ! 

Awake, my soul ! not only passive praise 

Thou owest ! not alone these swelling tears, 

Mute thanks and secret ecstasy ! Awake, 

Voice of sweet song ! Awake, nry heart, awake ! 

Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my hymn. 

Thou first and chief, sole sovran of the vale ! 
O struggling with the darkness all the night, 
And visited all night by troops of stars, 
Or when they climb the sky or when they sink : 
Companion of the morning-star at dawn, 
Thyself Earth's rosy star, and of the dawn 
Co-herald: wake, O, wake, and utter praise! 
Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth ? 
Who filled thy countenance with rosy light ? 
Who made thee parent of perpetual streams ? 



216 SELECTIONS FOR READING. 

And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad ! 

Who called you forth from night and utter death, 

From dark and icy caverns called you forth, 

From those precipitous, black, jagged rocks, 

Forever shattered and the same forever? 

Who gave you your invulnerable life, 

Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy, 

Unceasing thunder, and eternal foam ? 

And who commanded (and the silence came), 

Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest ? 

Ye ice-falls ! ye that from the mountain's brow 

Adown enormous ravines slope amain, — « 

Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice, 

And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge ! 

Motionless torrents ! silent cataracts ! 

Who made you glorious as the gates of Heaven 

Beneath the keen full moon ? Who bade the sun 

Clothe you with rainbows ? Who, with living flowers 

Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet? 

" God! " let the torrents, like a shout of nations, 

Answer ; and let the ice-plains echo, ' ' God ! ' ' 

' ' God ! ' ' sing }^e meadow streams with gladsome voice I 

Ye fine groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds ! 

And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow, 

And in their perilous fall shall thunder, ' ' God ! ' ' 

Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost ! 
Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest! 
Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain storm ! 
Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds ! 
Ye signs and wonders of the elements ! 
Utter forth "God," and fill the hills with praise! 

Thou too, hoar Mount, with thy sky-pointing peaks, 
Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard, 



THIS WORLD IS ALL A FLEETING SHOW. 217 

Shoots .downward, glittering through the pure serene 

Into the depth of clouds that veil thy breast, — 

Thou too again, stupendous Mountain ! thou 

That as I raise my head, awhile bowed low 

In adoration, upward from thy base 

Slow travelling with dim eyes suffused with tears 

Solemnly seemest, like a vapory cloud, 

To rise before me, — Rise, O ever rise, 

Rise like a cloud of incense from the earth ! 

Thou kingly Spirit throned among the hills, 

Thou dread ambassador from Earth to Heaven, 

Great hierarch, tell thou the silent sky, 

And tell the stars and tell yon rising sun, 

Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God. 

— [Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 



This World is all a Fleeting Show. 

This world is all a fleeting show, 

For man's illusion given ; 
The smiles of Joy, the tears of Woe, 
Deceitful shine, deceitful flow — 

There's nothing true but Heaven ! , 

And false the light on Glory's plume, 

As fading hues of Even ; 
And Love, and Hope, and Beauty's bloom, 
Are blossoms gather' d for the tomb — 

There's nothing bright but Heaven! 

Poor wand'rers of a stormy day 

From wave to wave we're driven, 
And Fancy's flash, and Reason's ray, 
Serve but to light the troubled way — 

There's nothing calm but Heaven! 

— \_Thomas Moore. 



218 selections for heading. 

Against the Censorship of the Press. 

I deny not but that it is of the greatest concernment in the 
church and commonwealth, to have a vigilant eye how books 
demean themselves as well as men ; and therefore to confine, im- 
prison, and do sharpest justice upon them as malefactors ; for 
books are not absolutely dead things, but do contain a potency of 
life in them, to be as active as that soul whose progeny they are ; 
nay, they do preserve as in a vial, the purest efficacy and extrac- 
tion of that living intellect that bred them. I know they are as 
lively, and as vigorously productive, as those fabulous dragons' 
teeth ; and being sown up and down, may chance to spring up 
armed men. And yet, on the other hand, unless wariness be used, 
as good almost kill a man as kill a good book : who Mils a man kills 
a reasonable creature, God's image ; but he who destroys a good 
book, kills reason itself, Mils the image of God, as it were, in the eye. 

Many a man lives a burden to the earth ; but a good book is the 
precious life-blood of a master-spirit, embalmed and treasured 
up on purpose to a life beyond life, "lis true no age can restore 
a life, whereof perhaps there is no great loss ; and revolutions of 
ages do not oft recover the loss of a rejected truth, for the want 
of which whole nations fare the worse. 

We should be wary, therefore, what persecution we raise against 
the living labors of public men, how spill that seasoned life of 
man, preserved and stored up in books ; since we see a kind of 
homicide may be thus committed, sometimes a kind of martyrdom ; 
and if it extend to the whole impression, a kind of massacre, 
whereof the execution ends not in the slaying of an elemental life, 
but strikes at that ethereal and soft essence, the breath of reason 
itself, slays an immortality rather than a life. — \Jolm Milton. 



Sunrise. 



Yonder comes the powerful king of day, 
Rejoicing in the east. The lessening cloud, 
The kindling: azure, and the mountains brow 



HOTSPUR S DESCRIPTION OF A FOP. 219 

Illumed with fluid gold, his near approach 

Betoken glad. Lo ! now, apparent all, 

Aslant the dew-bright earth, and colored air, 

He looks in boundless majesty abroad ; 

And sheds the shining day, that burnish' d plays 

On rocks, and hills, and towers, and wandering streams, 

High gleaming from afar. Prime cheerer Light ! 

Of all material beings first, and best ! 

Efflux divine ! Nature's resplendent robe ! 

Without whose resting beauty all were wrapt 

In unessential gloom ; and thou, O Sun ! 

Soul of surrounding worlds ! in whom best seen 

Shines out thy Maker, may I sing of thee ? 

— [James Thomson. 



Hotspur's Description of a Fop. 

But, I remember, when the fight was done, 

When I was dry with rage and extreme toil, 

Breathless and faint, leaning upon my sword, 

Came there a certain lord, neat, trimly dress' d, 

Fresh as a bridegroom ; and his chin, new reap'd, 

Show'd like a stubble-land at harvest-home ; 

He was perfumed like a milliner ; 

And 'twixt his finger and his thumb he held 

A pouncet-box, which ever and anon 

He gave his nose, and took 't away again ; 

Who, therewith angry, when it next came there, 

Took it in snuff: and still he smiled and talk'd ; 

And as the soldiers bore dead bodies by, 

He call'd them untaught knaves, unmannerly, 

To bring a slovenly unhandsome corse 

Betwixt the wind and his nobility. 

With many holiday and lady terms 

He question' d me ; among the rest, demanded 



220 SELECTIONS FOR READING. 

My prisoners in your majesty's behalf. 

I then, all smarting, with my wounds being cold, 

To be so pester' d with a popinjay, 

Out of my grief and my impatience, 

Answer' d neglectingly, I know not what ; 

He should, or should not ; — for he made me mad, 

To see him shine so brisk, and smell so sweet, 

And talk so like a waiting gentlewoman 

Of guns, and drums, and wounds, (God. save the mark!) 

And telling me, the sovreign'st thing on earth 

Was parmacetti for an inward bruise : 

And that it was great pity, so it was, 

That villanous saltpetre should be digg'd 

Out of the bowels of the harmless earth, 

Which many a good tall fellow had destroy' d 

So cowardly ; and but for these vile guns 

He would himself have been a soldier. 

— [William Shakspere. 



Shakespeare's Historical Plays. 

I have often thought on a saying quoted from Pitt, to the effect 
that he learned what he knew of English history from Shake- 
speare. A statesman so wise as Pitt — one who looked quite 
through the shifting surfaces of human affairs, and intuitively 
grasped the weak and the strong sides of his nation's character, — 
must have had some truly vital knowledge of human histoiy, and 
especially of British history. 

Whenever I have read one of Shakespeare's historical plays in 
latter years, I have strained my attention to catch the secret of 
Pitt's remark. A poet so careless of the externals of history, 
violating geography and chronology with evident contempt for the 
same — how could he convey a true knowledge of history ? To 
make Ulysses quote Aristotle — is not that to render impossible 
any true national soul-painting in his sketch of heroic times as 



Shakespeare's historical plays. 221 

given in Troilus and Cressida? What sort of Dane could Hamlet 
be if he is taken so far out of his epoch as to attend the University 
of Wittenberg? 

It seemed as though Shakespeare played With the forms of time 
and space, as Prospero did before he buried his magic wand, and 
that historical verity to him was of the least account. Hence, he 
would seem at first to be the most misleading of all guides in history. 

Such thoughts prevailed until one day I re-read " King John," 
and seemed to get a new insight into Shakespeare's art, generally. 
For, not being able to find distinct utterance of philosophy or 
science in his works before, it had been doubtful whether the high 
place accorded to him by modern Germans, and by such critics 
as Carlyle and Coleridge, was not extravagant. 

I now saw or seemed to see that Shakespeare transcended other 
poets in the completeness of his pictures. Expression was his 
forte ; and by this I mean that he let every other circumstance 
that had a determining effect on the deed which formed the 
nucleus of his drama, express itself — make itself apparent. 
While other authors, such as Moliere and Calderon, great even 
as they were above the Lope de Vegas and Racines of their age — 
and these latter were giants in comparison with the multitude of 
poets about them — while other authors portrayed their themes 
with only such accessories as were directly necessary to develop 
the plot, Shakespeare had probed to the bottom of human ex- 
perience, and discovered, one by one, all of its presuppositions, 
and collected them for the spectator. In order to present truth 
fee found it necessary to present all the presuppositions of a deed. 
Inasmuch as there is no isolated man, but each one is a member 
of society, it is requisite to portray the status of society in ex- 
plaining the particular deed of the individual. The common man 
acts in accordance with use and wont, and follows without devi- 
ation the beaten track marked out for him by his fellows — his 
immediate kinsmen and neighbors. The heroic character, with an 
eccentric orbit, collides with society and makes a theme for 
tragedy. * * * While it satisfies the ordinary story-teller to 
relate the direct particulars of the collisions of his hero, nothing 



222 SELECTIONS FOR READING. 

will do for Shakespeare but a complete presentation of all the 
accessories. Given to Shakespeare a " beggarly scrap of history" 
from some Geoffrey of Monmouth, or from Saxo-Grammaticus, 
and forthwith he penetrates into a world of presuppositions that 
are demanded to make that scrap a living reality. Given the small 
arc and he computes the total circle ; given the abstract statement 
of Macbeth' s deed, and forthwith he conjures up all the concrete 
relations, the family, society, and State ; the moral tone of the 
individual, and his ethical interaction with the social condition in 
which he lives, and the subtle casuistry by which he justifies his 
course. Anachronism will be found to be superficial and seeming. 
Nay, more than this, it will be discovered to be a conscious ruse 
on the part of Shakespeare, in order to bring more closely to his 
audience the essential threads of his drama. It has been pointed 
out that the Wittenberg University suggested Luther to the Eng- 
lish: Cranmer's important connection with Luther, and with the 
Church of England, had made Wittenberg familiar. Through the 
anachronism he made the portrayal of Hamlet truer to the English 
people — connecting Hamlet with that locality where independent 
thinking was done. 

In short, the discovery of Shakespeare's method — his manner 
of portrayal — led me to see his eminent merit as a historian, and 
to realize the statement of Aristotle, that poetry is more phil- 
osophical and more important than history. Here was a man who 
clothed in flesh and blood the skeletons of the past. He read 
Plutarch, and saw in the masterly outlines there given, enough to 
enable him to construct the living reality. No deed is isolated, 
all things are interdependent ; only the totality of conditions en- 
ables us to comprehend the puniest act. See the part in the whole, 
and then you are able to see the reflection of the whole in the 
part. * * * 

Of course the true poet must portray a deed in its relations in 
order to exhibit this reflection. The fewer relations, the less re- 
flection and the less truth. The more relations, the more reflection 
and the more truth. Shakespeare excels all poets in the portrayal 
of this reflection of the deed upon the doer. 



SATAN. 223 

If any one at this point should be inclined to accuse me of forc- 
ing my own ideas upon Shakespeare, and attributing to him some- 
thing which he did not consciously do, I would sajr that conscious 
intention is not expected of a poet. It is the instinct of his art 
that we expect. It will lead him to adopt a method of some sort. 
Shakespeare instinctively adopted the method of exhaustive por- 
trayal, and felt that this or that accessory must be uttered or 
expressed, because it stood out in his creative imagination as 
essentially belonging to the representation of the deed. — 
[_ William T. Harris. 



Satan. 

He scarce had ceas'd, when the superior fiend 
Was moving towards the shore ; his ponderous shield, 
Ethereal temper, massy, large and round, 
Behind him cast ; the broad circumference 
Hung on his shoulders like the moon, whose orb 
Through optic glass the Tuscan artist views 
At Ev'ning, from the top of Fesole 
Or in Valdarno, to descry new lands, 
Rivers or mountains in her spotty globe. 
His spear, to equal which the tallest pine, 
Hewn on Norwegian hills to be the mast 
Of some great ammiral, were but a wand 
He walk'd with to support uneasy steps 
Over the burning marie, not like those steps 
On heaven's azure, and the torrid clime 
Smote on him sore beside, vaulted with fire. 
Nathless he so indur'd, till on the beach 
Of that inflamed sea he stood, and call'd 
His legions, angel forms, who lay entranc'cl, 
Thick as autumnal leaves that stroW the brooks 
In Vallambrosa, where the Etrurian shades 
High overarch' d imbow'r; or scatter' d sedge 



224 SELECTIONS FOR READING. 

Afloat, when fierce winds Orion arm'd 

Hath vex'd the Red Sea coast, whose waves o'erthrew 

Busiris and his Memphian chivalry, 

While with perfidious hatred they persu'd 

The sojourners of Goshen, who beheld 

From the safe shore their floating carcasses 

And broken chariot wheels ; so thick bestrown. 

Abject and lost lay these, covering the flood, 

Under amazement of their hideous change. 

He call'd so loud that all the hollow deep 

Of hell resounded : Princes, Potentates, 

Warriors, the flow'r of heaven, once yours, now lost, 

If such astonishment as this can seize 

Eternal spirits ; or have ye chos'n this place 

After the toil of battle to repose 

Your wearied virtue, for the ease you find 

To slumber here, as in the vales of heaven? 

Or in this abject posture have ye sworn 

To adore the conqueror ? who now beholds 

Cherub and seraph rolling in the flood 

With scatter' d arms and ensigns, till anon 

His swift pursuers from heaven gates discern 

The advantage, and descending tread us down 

Thus drooping, or with linked thunder bolts 

Transfix us to the bottom of this gulf. 

Awake, arise, or be forever fallen ! 

They heard, and were abash' d, and up they sprung 
Upon the wing, as when men wont to watch 
On duty, sleeping found by whom they dread, 
Rouse and bestir themselves ere well awake. 
Nor did they not perceive the evil plight 
In which they were, or the fierce pains not feel ; 
Yet to their General's voice they soon obey'd 
Innumerable. 

— \Jolin Milton. 






THE EXCURSION. 225 



The Excursion. 



Oh ! many are the Poets that are sown 
By Nature ; men endowed with highest gifts, 
The vision and the faculty divine ; 
Yet wanting the accomplishment of verse, 
(Which, in the docile season of their youth, 
It was denied them to acquire, through lack 
Of culture and the inspiring aid of books, 
Or haply by a temper too severe, 
Or a nice backwardness afraid of shame, ) 
Nor having e'en, as life advanced, been led 
By circumstance to take unto the height 
The measure of themselves, these favored Beings, 
All but a scattered few, live out their time, 
Husbanding that which they possess within, 
And go to the grave, unthought of. Strongest minds 
Are often those whom the noisy world 
Hears least ; 

A single step, that freed me from the skirts 
Of the blind vapor, opened to my view 
Glory beyond all glory ever seen 
By waking sense or by the dreaming soul ! 
The appearance, instantaneously disclosed, 
Was of a mighty city, — boldly say 
A wilderness of building, sinking far 
And self- withdrawn into a boundless depth, 
Far sinking into splendour, — without end ! 
Fabric it seemed of diamond and of gold, 
With alabaster domes, and silver spires, 
And blazing terrace upon terrace, high 
Uplifted ; here, serene pavilions bright, 
In avenues disposed ; there, towers begirt 
With battlements that on their restless fronts 
Bore stars, — illumination of all gems ! 
15 



226 SELECTIONS FOR READING. 

By earthly nature had the effect been wrought 

Upon the dark materials of the storm 

Now pacified ; on them, and on the coves 

And mountain — steeps and summits, whereunto 

The vapours had receded taking there 

Their station under a cerulean sky. 

O, 'twas an unimaginable sight ! 

Clouds, mists, streams, watery rocks, and emerald turf, 

Clouds of all tincture, rocks and sapphire sky, 

Confused, commingled, mutually inflamed, 

Molten together, and composing thus, 

Each lost in each, that marvellous array 

Of temple, palace, citadel, and huge 

Fantastic pomp of structure without name, 

In fleecy fold voluminous enwrapped. 

Eight in the midst, where interspace appeared 

Of open court, an object like a throne 

Under a shining canopy of state 

Stood fixed ; and fixed resemblances were seen 

To implements of ordinary use, 

But vast in size, in substance glorified ; 

Such as by Hebrew Prophets were beheld 

In vision, — forms uncouth of mightiest power 

For admiration and mysterious awe. 

— [ Will lam Wordswo rth . 



Death and Satan. 



Black it stood as night, 

Fierce as ten furies, terrible as hell, 

And shook a dreadful dart ; what seem'd his head 

The likeness of a kingly crown had on. 

Satan was now at hand ; and from his seat 

The monster moving onward came as fast, 

With horrid strides ; hell trembled as he strode. 



DEATH AND SATAN. 227 

The undaunted fiend what this might be admir'cl, 
Admired, not feared ; — God and his Son except, 
Created thing naught valued he, nor shunn'd ; 
And with disdainful look thus first began. 
Whence and what art thou, execrable shape, 
That dar'st, though grim and terrible, advance 
Thy miscreated front athwart my way 
To yonder gates ? Through them I mean to pass, 
That be assur'd, without leave ask'd of thee. 
Retire, or taste thy folly, and learn by proof, 
Hell-born, not to contend with spirits of heaven ! 

To whom the goblin, full of wrath, replied, 
Art thou that traitor angel, art thou he, 
Who first broke peace in heaven and faith, till then 
Unbroken, and in proud rebellious arms 
Drew after him the third part of heaven's sons 
Conjur'd against the Highest ; for which both thou! 
And they, outcast from God, are here condemn' d 
To waste eternal days in woe and pain ? 
And reckon' st thou thyself with spirits of heaven, 
Hell-doom' d, and breath' st defiance here and scorn r 
Where I reign king, and, to enrage thee more, 
Thy king and lord ? Back to thy punishment, 
False fugitive, and to thy speed add wings, 
Lest with a whip of scorpions I pursue 
Thy ling' ring, or with one stroke of this dart 
Strange horror seize thee, and pangs unfelt before. 
So spake the grisly Terror, and in shape, 
So speaking, and so threatening, grew ten-fold 
More dreadful and deform : on th' other side, 
Incens'd with indignation Satan stood 
Unterrify'd, and like a comet burn'd, 
That fires the length of Ophiucus huge 
In th' arctic sky, and from his horrid hair 
Shakes pestilence and war. Each at the head 
Levell'd his deadly aim ; their fatal hands 



228 SELECTIONS FOR READING. 

No second stroke intend ; and such a frown 

Each cast at th' other, as when two black clouds, 

With Heaven's artillery fraught, come rattling on 

Over the Caspian, then stand front to front 

Hov'ring a space, till winds the signal blow 

To join their dark encounter in mid air: 

So frown' d the mighty combatants, that hell 

Grew darker at their frown, so match' d they stood ; 

For never but once more was either like 

To meet so great a foe ; and now great deeds 

Had been achiev'd, whereof all hell had rung, 

Had not the snaky sorceress that sat 

Fast by hell-gate, and kept the fatal key, 

Ris'n, and with^hideous cry rush'd between. 

— [John Milton. 



To Autumn. 

Season of mists and mellow f ruitf ulness ! 

Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun ; 
Conspiring with him how to load and bless 

With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run 
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage trees, 

And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core ; 
To swell the gourd and plump the hazel shells 

With a sweet kernel ; to sit budding more, 
And still more, later flowers for the bees, 
Until they think warm days will never cease, 

For Summer has o'erbrimm'd their clammy cells. 

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store ? 

Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find 
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, 

Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind ; 
Or on a half -reap' d furrow sound asleep, 



satan's lamentation. 229 

Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook 
Spares the next swath and all is twined flowers ; 
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep 

Steady thy laden head across a brook ; 

Or by a cider-press, with patient look, 

Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours. 

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they? 

Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, 
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day, 
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue ; 
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn 
, Among the river- sallows, borne aloft 

Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies ; 
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn ; 
Hedge-crickets sing ; and now with treble soft 
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft 
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies. 

— [John Keats. 



Satan's Lamentation. 

O had his pow'rful destiny ordain' d 
Me some inferior angel, I had stood 
Then happy : no unbounded hope had rais'd 
Ambition ! Yet why not? Some other power 
As great might have aspir'd, and me though mean, 
Drawn to his part ; but other pow'rs as great 
Fell not, but stand unshaken, from within 
Or from without, to all temptations arm'd. 
Hadst thou the same free will and power to stand ? 
Thou hadst : whom hast thou then, or what, to accuse, 
But Heav'n's free love dealt equally to all? 
Me miserable ! which way shall I fly 
Infinite wrath, and infinite despair ? 



230 SELECTIONS FOR READING. 

Which way I fly is hell ; myself am hell ; 

And, in the lowest deep a lower deep 

Still threat' ning to devour me, opens wide; 

To which the hell I suffer seems a heaven. 

O then at last relent : is there no place 

Left for repentance, none for pardon left? 

None left but by submission ; and that word 

Disdain forbids me, and my dread of shame 

Among the spirits beneath, whom I seduc'd 

With other promises and other vaunts 

Than to submit, boasting I could subdue 

Th' Omnipotent. Ay me, they little know 

How dearly I abide that boast so vain, 

Under what torments inwardly I groan ; 

While they adore me on the throne of Hell, 

With diadem and sceptre high advanc'd, 

The lower still I fall, only supreme 

Jn misery ; such joy ambition finds. 

But say I could repent, and could obtain 

By act of grace my former state ; how soon 

Would height recall high thoughts, how soon unsay 

What feign' d submission swore : ease would recant 

Vows made in pain, as violent and void ; 

This knows my punisher ; therefore as far 

From granting he, as I from begging peace : 

All hope excluded thus, behold instead 

Of us outcast, exil'd, his new delight, 

Mankind, created, and for him this world, 

So farewell hope, and with hope farewell fear, 

Farewell remorse : all good to me is lost. 

— [John Milton. 



The Dream of Clarence. 

Clarence. O, I have pass'd a miserable night, 
So full of fearful dreams, of ugly sights, 



THE DREAM OF CLARENCE. 231 

That as I am a Christian faithful man, 

I would not spend another such a night, 

Though 't were to buy a world of happy days ; 

So full of dismal terror was the time. 

Methought that I had broken from the tower, 

And was embarked to cross to Burgundy ; 

And, in my company, my brother G-loster ; 

Who from my cabin tempted me to walk 

Upon the hatches ; thence we look'd toward England, 

And cited up a thousand heavy times, 

During the wars of York and Lancaster, 

That had befallen us. As we paced along 

Upon the giddy footing of the hatches, 

Methought that G-loster stumbled, and in falling, . 

Struck me, that thought to stay him, overboard, 

Into the tumbling billows of the main. 

O Lord ! Methought what pain it was to drown ! 

What dreadful noise of water in mine ears ! 

What sights of ugly death within mine eyes ! 

Methought I saw a thousand fearful wrecks ; 

A thousand men, that fishes gnawed upon ; 

Wedges of gold, great anchors, heaps of pearl, 

Inestimable stones, unvalued jewels, 

All scatter' d in the bottom of the sea. 

Some lay in dead men's skulls ; and in those holes 

Where eyes did once inhabit, there were crept 

As 'twere in scorn of eyes, reflecting gems, 

That woo'd the slimy bottom of the deep, 

And mock'd the dead bones that lay scatter' d by. 

Brakenbury. Had you such leisure, in the time of death T 
To gaze upon the secrets of the deep ? 

Clar. Methought I had ; and often did I strive 
To yield the ghost : but still the envious flood 
Stopt in my soul, and would not let it forth 
To find the empty, vast, and wandering air ; 



232 SELECTIONS FOR READING. . 

But smother' d it within my panting bulk, 
Which almost burst to belch it in the sea. 

Brak. Awaked you not with this sore agony ? 

Clar. No, no, my dream was lengthened after life ; 
O, then began the tempest to my soul ! 
I pass'd, methought, the melancholy flood 
With that sour ferryman which poets write of, 
Unto the kingdom of perpetual night. 
The first that there did greet my stranger soul 
Was my great father-in-law, renown' d Warwick ; 
Who cried aloud, — " What scourge for perjury 
Can this dark monarchy afford false Clarence? " — 
And so he vanish' d: then came wandering by 
A shadow like an angel, with bright hair 
Dabbled in blood ; and he shriek' d out aloud, — 
Clarence is come, — false, fleeting, perjured Clarence — 
That stabb'd me in the field by Tewksbury ; 
Seize on him, furies, take him to your torment ! 
With that, methought, a legion of foul fiends 
Environ' d me, and howl'd in mine ears 
Such hideous cries, that, with the very noise, 
I trembling waked, and for a season after, 
Could not believe but that I was in hell, 
Such terrible impression made my dream. 

— [_ William Shakspere. 



Character of Addison. 

As a describer of life and manners he must be allowed to stand 
perhaps the first of the first rank. His humor, which, as Steele 
observes, is peculiar to himself, is so happily diffused as to give 
the grace of novelty to domestic scenes and daily occurrences. 
He never " oversteps the modesty of nature," nor raises merri- 
ment or wonder by the violation of truth. His figures neither 



CHARACTER OF ADDISON. 233 

divert by distortion nor amaze by aggravation. He copies life 
with so nmch fidelity that he can hardly be said to invent ; yet his 
exhibitions have an air so much original that it is difficult to sup- 
pose them not merely the product of imagination. 

As a teacher of wisdom he may be confidently followed. His 
religion has nothing in it enthusiastic or superstitious ; he appears 
neither weakly credulous nor wantonly skeptical ; his morality is 
neither dangerously lax nor impracticably rigid. All the enchant- 
ment of fancy and all the cogency of argument are employed to 
recommend to the reader his real interest, the care of pleasing the 
Author of his being. Truth is shown sometimes as the phantom 
of a vision ; sometimes appears half- veiled in allegory ; sometimes 
attracts regard in the robes of fancy ; and sometimes steps forth 
in the confidence of reason. She wears a thousand dresses, and 
in all is pleasing. 

His prose is the model of the middle style ; on grave subjects 
not formal, on light occasions not groveling ; pure without scru- 
pulosity, and exact without apparent elaboration ; always equable 
and always easy, without glowing words or pointed sentences. 
Addison never deviates from his track to snatch a grace ; he seeks 
no ambitious ornaments, and tries no hazardous innovations. His 
page is always luminous, but never blazes in unexpected splendor. 

It was apparently his principal endeavor to avoid all harshness 
and severity of diction ; he is therefore sometimes verbose in his 
transitions and connections, and sometimes descends too much to 
the language of conversation; yet if his language had been less 
idiomatical it might have lost somewhat of its genuine Anglicism. 
What he attempted he performed ; he is never feeble, and he 
did not wish to be energetic ; he is never rapid, and he never 
stagnates. His sentences have neither studied amplitude nor af- 
fected brevity; his periods, though not diligently rounded, are 
voluble and easy. Whoever wishes to attain an English style, 
familiar but not coarse, and elegant but not ostentatious, must 
give his days and nights to the volumes of Addison. — [Samuel 
Johnson. 



234 SELECTIONS FOR READING. 



Blaunche the Duchesse. 



To speke of godenesse trewly she 
Had as mo eke deb on airy ete 
As ever had Hester in the Bible, 
And more, gif more were possyble. 
And sothe to seyne, therwyth-alle, 
She had a wytte so generalle, 
So hoole enclyned to alle goode, 
That al hir wytte was set, by the Rode T 
With-oute malyce upon gladnesse ; 
And ther-to I sawgh never yet a lesse 
Harmeful than she was in doynge. 
I sey nat that she ne had knowynge 
What harme was, or elles she 
Had koude no good, so thenketh me. 

And trewly, for to speke of trouthe, 
But she had hadde, hyt hadde be routhe. 
Therof she had so moche lryr dele, 
And I dar seyn, and swere hyt wele, 
That Trouthe lrym-selfe, over al and alle, 
Had chose hys maner principalle 
In hir, that was his restynge-place 
Ther-to she haclde the moste grace 
To have stedef aste perseveraunce 
And esy, atempry governaunce, 
That ever I knewe, or wyste yitte, 
So pure, suffraunt, was hir wytte. 
And resoun gladly she understoode ; 
Hyt folowed wel she koude goode. 
She used gladly to do wel : 
These were hir maners eveiydel. 

Therwith she loved so wel ryght, 
She wronge do wolde to no wyght ; 
No wyghte myghte doo hir noo shame, 



BLAUNCHE THE DUCHESSE. 235 

She loved so wel hir oune name. 
Hyr lust to holcle no wyght in honde, 
Ne, be thou siker, she wolde not fonde 
To holde ne ayght in balaunce 
By halfe worde, ne by countenaunce, 
But gif men wolde upon hir lye ; 
Ne sende men in-to Walakye, 
To Pruyse, and in-to Tartarye, 
To Alisaundre, ne in-to Turkye ; 
And byd hym faste, anoon, that he 
Goo hoodeles in-to the drye se, 
And come home by the Carrenare ; 
And seye, " Sir, be now ryght ware 
That I may of yow here seyn 
Worshyppe, or that ye come ageyn! " 
She ne used no suche knakkes smale. 

— [Geoffrey Chaucer. 



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